


Brilliant Analytical Minds

by stuckoncloud9



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, because he got hit in the head so hard he went into a coma, it's based off that one period of comics where riddler lost his memories, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: When one of Bruce Wayne's socialite friends is murdered, her grieving uncle shocks Gotham by hiring the Riddler to deduce the identity of her killer.
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 100
Kudos: 96





	1. Have a Pleasant Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of this fanfic used to be "Detective Comics #822 but gay." I changed it because this has since escaped the confines of that one individual issue, but for the sake of transparency I should still state that the first seven chapters are absolutely just "Detective Comics #822 but gay."

Being Batman means that I often end up returning to the cave at the end of the night — or in this case, at eight in the morning — hungry, sore, and tired. Dick usually describes this condition as “Bat-crabbiness,” which is why I very pointedly do not answer Dick’s calls or texts during the period between when I come back from patrol and when I finally fall into bed for the night. Or day. It’s usually day.

Tonight, though, even I am willing to admit that “crabby” would be an accurate description of my mood. Having to hold on to the fins of Roxy Rocket’s getaway projectile while she nearly careens into skyscrapers at top speed will do that to you. Said rocket crashing into the top of the Sprang River Bridge didn’t do much to improve my night either. At the end of the hour and a half it took me to get both of us safely back on solid land? Well. Let’s just say I wasn’t planning on lingering in the Batcave for very long before collapsing in bed for at least six hours of uninterrupted unconsciousness.

Which is exactly why I should have expected to find the cave’s warning lights blinking at me mockingly when I climbed out of the Batmobile. The alarm was flashing in the pattern that indicated someone was in the mansion; someone Alfred couldn’t risk solo contact with, and someone expecting to find Bruce Wayne. It was with the utmost reluctance that I changed out of my gear, put on the emergency suit and tie that Alfred keeps ironed and pressed in the Batcave, and checked my appearance in the mirror.

I sighed when I noticed the gash in my cheek; I didn’t have time to apply the careful layers of foundation that would be necessary to hide the injury. Instead, I grabbed a tube of lipstick out of the medicine cabinet. “Ruby Woo” was a shade very popular amongst the women in Bruce Wayne’s dating pool. It also happened to be roughly blood-colored. I smeared a bit of it on my cheek over the wound. Ideally, any further bleeding would blend in with the makeup.

Satisfied with my appearance, I made my way into the elevator. Alfred would never let anyone into the study when he’s expecting my imminent return, so I wasn’t worried about running into an unexpected guest when I exited the secret passage behind the grandfather clock. Even from the study, however, I could hear the undeniable (and very unwelcome) sound of a crowd in the foyer.

I braced myself as I picked up the pace, walking swiftly towards the double doors that entered into the manor’s main hall. The presence of that many people was never a good sign, and as I pushed open the doors I summoned the energy I needed to be ready for anything...

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne!” called out a voice from the bottom of the stairs. Its owner, a red-headed man dressed in an ostentatious green suit, grinned up at me with a smile almost as wide as it was irritating. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever get out of bed!”

...Anything but him. I took a deep breath and tried to summon more energy, but found none forthcoming. Great. Another look around the room confirmed my suspicions; other than Alfred and my very unwelcome guest, the rest of the crowd was entirely made up of police officers (including Commissioner Gordon), as well as members of the Gotham press. Worse, a few of the journalists and photographers looked suspiciously like the paparazzi who were always loitering on the other side of the hedges at the edge of the Wayne property. At least they’d appreciate the lipstick. The thought was somewhat centering, and I took the opportunity to plaster on the patented “I don’t know what’s going on but I’m happy to be here” smile that I’d been practicing since the fifth grade.

“Is it Halloween already?” I asked, walking down the stairs as casually as possible. “Alfred, can we get this trick-or-treater some candy?” The man in green stiffened, and there was some amused chuckling from the press. Good. Just lay on that Wayne Charm, and there’s no reason why anything has to go wrong. “And then throw him the hell out?”

Shit, no. That was the Bat-crabbiness talking. I opened my mouth to backpedal, but to my surprise the comment seemed to return my guest’s irritatingly cheerful enthusiasm.

“Manners, please, Mr. Wayne!” he said, pointing his custom question mark shaped cane at me accusingly. “The old criminal Riddler is gone. Before you stands consulting detective Edward Nygma, a man reborn!”

I took a step backwards, not having had many positive experiences with Riddler pointing his cane in my direction. My movement only caused his smile to get wider. “My doctors say my formerly aberrant ways have been dispelled with the loss of my more untoward memories,” he continued, letting the cane drop back to his side. “Leaving intact my — if I may say so — brilliant analytical mind.”

I blinked. That was... an optimistic way to describe the events of the past eleven months. Last June, Riddler had escaped from Arkham Asylum during a worldwide breakout organized by the unimaginatively named Secret Society of Supervillains. I’d lost track of him in the chaos; lost track of most of the Arkham inmates, a failure I was still working to correct. Though by now I’d caught up to the majority of them, I hadn’t been the one to find Riddler. He’d been defeated in Metropolis of all places, stopped in his tracks with a mace to the head, courtesy of the Shining Knight.

Edward had spent the rest of the year in a coma, which had been... worrying. During those months, I’d made it a point to visit his hospital room repeatedly. He could have been faking it for some kind of scheme, after all. Crazier things had happened. But despite my vigilance, it was undeniable that there was something very, very wrong with the man lying in the hospital bed. I’d seen Edward injured before; at my hands, more often than not. And yet seeing him hooked up to IVs, a pale, desiccated shell of his former prideful self— it had disturbed me enough that I’d actually been relieved when I got the news that he’d woken up.

I’d been even more relieved when I’d been informed that Riddler had woken up barely able to remember his own name — much less the fact that he’d managed to deduce Batman’s secret identity.

I realized that Riddler was staring at me. Right. He’d been talking. Something about being a brilliant analytical mind.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Am I supposed to applaud?”

Gordon leaned over to hand me a manilla envelope, which I took with a grateful nod.

“No,” Riddler replied, turning away from Gordon and I to face the press. “But you might spare an iota of gratitude to the man who’s about to acquit you of murder.”

I raised an eyebrow at Gordon.

“The Karrie Bishop case,” Gordon clarified, and as he spoke I glanced through the contents of the envelope. “According to this photo we found in her apartment, it seems you were with her on the day she was killed.”

That... did seem to be what the photo in my hands was suggesting. I remembered hearing about Karrie’s murder — several days after it happened, since at the time I’d been assisting the Flash with a problem in Gorilla City. It wasn’t a great alibi, especially in light of the photograph I was holding that clearly depicted Bruce Wayne greeting Karrie Bishop with the gift of a dozen roses. It probably didn’t help that Karrie and I had been casually dating for a while now, although it had definitely been a few months since our last outing together.

I’d been shocked when I heard what had happened to Karrie, and I’d been meaning to follow up on her case personally when my attention was diverted by Roxy Rocket’s robbery of S.T.A.R. Labs. And now I was a suspect. I wanted to be surprised, but honestly this was about the kind of exhausting development I’d come to expect from the last 24 hours.

“It’s true that I knew Karrie,” I said carefully, “But I can assure you I am not the man in this picture.”

“Of course you’re not,” Riddler scoffed, snatching the photograph out of my hand and holding it up to the reporters. “This photo was taken four days ago at the Regent Grill. Six witnesses, including patrons, waiters, and a hostess saw our Mr. Wayne surprise Ms. Bishop with a bouquet of flowers.”

He glanced back in my direction, narrowing his eyes as he looked me up and down. “Observe. Though the man in this photograph is easily six foot two, our Bruce is taller — about six foot three and a half, I’d wager, and at least 240 pounds?”

That last bit had been phrased as a question, one I wasn’t particularly comfortable answering. My suits were tailored to hide the compact definition of my musculature — I still looked athletic, but not as solidly built as my nighttime activities required.

“Haven’t been on the scale today,” I said, “but I sure hope not.” That got a laugh from a few of the paparazzi, who did not seem to be as put off by the whole murder suspect thing as the police and more reputable members of the press.

Riddler was undisturbed, apparently taking my response as an invitation to lean further into my personal space. “Besides,” he continued, “I could tell at a glance that the facial features were all wrong. The real Bruce Wayne has a more sharply defined jawline, his cheekbones are at least three centimeters higher, and his chin is—”

Now Riddler was getting a laugh, though it wasn’t as purposeful as mine. When the former criminal noticed the chuckles that were rising in volume with each addition to his detailed description, his face flushed and he hastily backed away. I was feeling considerably less amused. If Riddler was as memoryless as he claimed, why would he have such a detailed recollection of Bruce Wayne’s appearance? It hadn’t missed me that all the facial features he’d listed were visible beneath the cowl, either.

I didn’t know what clue had given away my identity before Riddler had lost his memory; for all I knew, it had been as simple as comparing Batman’s facial profile to photographs of every white male Gothamite in my age range. If Riddler was able to recall a detailed analysis of my jawline, there was no telling what else he had remembered.

“That’s not— look,” Riddler said, waving the picture in the air in frustration. “That’s not all! The real clincher is this pink discoloration on the coat collar.”

“Lipstick?” Gordon guessed, then gestured pointedly at the stain on my cheek. “You might want to get that, by the way.”

I shrugged. “I’d just get more on me when I go back upstairs.”

“Makeup,” Riddler said, loudly, through gritted teeth. “Caucasian flesh-colored makeup, used by an actor trying to pass himself off as Bruce Wayne!”

That actually wasn’t as much of a clincher in my case as it would be with most other men in my demographic. The only reason I wasn’t wearing foundation at this exact moment was because I didn’t have enough time before leaving the Batcave. He was right on some level, though; I would never be so sloppy as to get it on my clothing.

“Well, mystery solved then!” I said, digging through the rest of the folder Gordon had handed me. “Except, you know. For whoever’s running around impersonating me.”

“Oh, don’t overly worry your humble mind about that,” Riddler said, stretching his arms out emphatically. “At this point, he’s just another tantalizing piece of the puzzle. I’m sure it will fall into place as I move all the other pieces around.”

He sauntered away towards the manor’s exit, the press trailing in his wake. “Goodbye, Mr. Wayne,” he called over his shoulder. “Have a pleasant morning!”

I watched him go until the doors had closed behind him. “Right,” I said, turning to Gordon. “So... why is he not locked up in Arkham? Like, actually.”

Jim sighed. “You can thank Karrie’s Uncle Bishop for that,” he explained. “We weren’t having much luck with the case, and it seems Gotham’s wealthiest lawyer wants his niece's killer found _now_. Since Batman isn’t exactly a hirable private detective, Bishop did the next best thing and got Arkham’s chief of staff to write the Riddler a clean bill of health.”

I had to stifle a grin at Gordon’s phrasing. Knowing Riddler, he probably wasn’t happy to be considered the next best thing to anyone, especially Batman. But that wouldn’t stop him from saying “yes” to anything that got him out of Arkham.

“Fascinating,” I said. “I wonder how much money it takes to rewrite ‘sociopathic’ as ‘eccentric?’”

“Let’s just say the Asylum won’t be hurting for straightjackets and thorazine for the next— wait.” Gordon paused, his brow furrowing suspiciously as he jabbed a finger in my direction. “Don’t even think about it, Wayne. The last thing I need is some playboy letting all hell break loose because he wanted to play footsie with Poison Ivy!”

“Relax, Commissioner,” I said, gently pushing his hand away from my— what was it? My sharply defined jawline. “I like my dates to end with a little less...”

I trailed off, glancing down at the packet in my hands. Gordon’s expression softened, seeming to realize where my thoughts had gone.

“I didn’t know Karrie well,” I said after a pause. “But I considered her a friend. If there’s anything I can do to help...”

“Of course,” Gordon said, squeezing my shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sorry this was dropped on you unexpectedly. I need to get back to the station— with any luck, we can resolve this situation before that cane-wielding lunatic can make it any worse.”

“Please do,” I said with a smile. “Here, I’ll walk you out. I have to make sure none of those lovely reporters get lost on their way off the property.”

That wasn’t all I had to do, but I waited until Gordon and his officers had gotten in their cars and driven off before I made my way up to where the press junket was huddled around Riddler. He seemed to be multi-tasking between answering the reporter’s questions and posing dramatically for the photographers.

“Excuse me!” I called, and in less than a second my field of vision was full of notepads, microphones, and cameras. I gave them a sheepish smile. “You know me, I hate to break up a party... but I have a guest upstairs who will be very put-out with me if the entirety of Gotham's free press is hanging out on my porch when she tries to leave.”

Most of the crowd got the message, making vague apologetic noises as they wandered off in the direction of their cars. Riddler moved to follow them, but I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder before turning to the lingering members of the paparazzi.

“Say, who let you onto the property anyway?” I asked pointedly. “I know it wasn’t me, and I’m guessing it wasn’t my butler...”

That did the trick. As the grumbling paparazzi dispersed, I turned back to Riddler. I’d been expecting him to verbally object, or at least push my hand away, but he’d stayed completely stationary as I’d addressed the lingering trespassers.

He seemed to realize this at the same time as I did, and scowled as he jerked away from my arm. “Do you need something, Wayne?” he asked, huffily readjusting his custom question mark jacket. “One would think I’ve already done you enough favors this morning.”

“Oh, you have,” I said with a smile. “Actually, I was thinking I could do something for you.”

Riddler opened his mouth, then closed his mouth, then opened it again. “What?”

“You un-framed me for murder!” I said, giving him a cheerful bump on the shoulder. He stared down at my hand like it was on fire, and I tactfully removed it. “I owe you... I don’t know. At least dinner.”

“Dinner,” Riddler echoed, looking skeptical. I couldn’t blame him. Under normal circumstances, I’d rather be stuck in one of his death traps then spend any amount of time making friendly dinner conversation with this narcissistic lunatic. But if Riddler had remembered Batman’s secret identity, then I needed to know — and, thankfully, Riddler’s narcissistic lunacy meant that he wouldn’t be able to resist letting me know if I gave him an opportunity to brag.

“It doesn’t have to be dinner,” I said with a grin. “I know some great brunch places.”

Riddler stared at me. His gaze was indecipherable. Then he flipped his cane over his shoulder and smirked. “You just can’t get enough of the limelight, can you Wayne?”

The urge to roll my eyes was almost overwhelming. Instead I tried my hand at looking bashful. “Well... yeah,” I said. “I’m serious about the quality of those brunch places, though.”

“I thought as much,” Riddler said, sounding deeply satisfied with himself. He turned to walk away, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. “Best get back to your ‘guest,’ Bruce. I’m sure you’d hate for the bed to get cold in your absence.”

He was out of earshot before I could point out that, presumably, my non-existent guest would be keeping it warm for me. I considered following him to his car to tell him that, but the talk about bed reminded me that I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, which in retrospect was probably the reason why I had just considered arguing semantics with the Riddler on purpose.

When I re-entered the mansion, Alfred was waiting for me by the door.

“Alfred,” I started, “would you—”

“Tap into media databases to create a profile of the public knowledge surrounding the late Ms. Bishop while you sleep for the next ten hours?” Alfred finished for me.

“—wake me up in three hours so I can create a public profile of Karrie,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always bothered me that in the original comic, Bruce never questions whether or not Riddler has remembered his secret identity or not. Like in the panel where he talks about Bruce's appearance, he trails off for a second staring at him, and when Bruce calls him on it he says "Hmm? Oh, a passing resemblance to something else, I'm sorry." And Bruce has NO reaction. That is such a red flag, Bruce. Please.


	2. BYOB (Bring Your Own Bat)

“It’s seven p.m., Alfred.”

“Yes. I do appreciate the assistance, Master Bruce, but I am quite capable of reading clocks on my own.”

“It’s been ten hours.”

“Basic math is also within my capabilities.”

I pulled on my other boot with a sigh. “I distinctly remember telling you that I wanted to wake up at noon.”

Alfred turned away from the monitor of the Batcomputer to give me a look of complete and utter innocence. “My apologies, Master Bruce. Perhaps you were too sleep-deprived to accurately express your intentions.”

“Just tell me what you found,” I said, picking my cowl up off the surface of the console.

“You know, young Master Damian was nowhere near this crabby when he came down for the evening,” Alfred mused. “And that was knowing that he’ll have to meet Master Drake when he visits the docks tonight.”

“Alfred.”

“Master Drake was almost this crabby when he came down,” Alfred continued. “But in his defense, that was knowing he would have to meet with young Master Damian.”

“Alfred.”

He sighed, seemingly in exasperation, though I watched with narrowed eyes as his moustache twitched in amusement. “I was able to discern the identity of Ms. Bishop’s latest beau,” Alfred said. “Or at least, the latest beau who wasn’t an imposter dressed up as Bruce Wayne.”

I glanced over his shoulder at the monitor. “Gregory Lanner, 31. Son of Henry Lanner, an oil magnate centered in Midland, Texas.”

“It would seem that Ms. Bishop was moving up in the world,” Alfred observed.

“Mother did always say that oil made for better marriage prospects than communications,” I said, placing the cowl helm over my head. “Not that she followed her own advice.”

“Perhaps Ms. Bishop shouldn’t have, either,” Alfred said, switching tabs to the police database. “Two weeks ago, Mr. Lanner was forcibly arrested on a drunk and disorderly. He knocked down three police officers before two others managed to cuff him. Once he sobered up enough to call his lawyer, all charges were dropped.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Only a week before Karrie was murdered. You think he might be responsible?”

“I think Mr. Lanner is trying too hard to appropriate the Lex Luthor look,” Alfred said, gesturing towards the mugshot where Gregory’s bald head was visible. “It barely looks good on Luthor, and at least half of that is just his unusually large amount of self confidence.”

“Narcissism doesn’t look good on anyone, Alfred,” I said, thinking of a certain green-suited man who might actually be more pompous than Lex. “Now, where can I find Mr. Lanner tonight? I think I have a few questions for him.”

. . .

“I didn’t kill her, I swear!” Lanner shouted, limbs flailing as he struggled in my grasp. It wasn’t the most intelligent thing he could be doing, considering that the two of us were hanging upside down from the eleventh story of the luxury hotel where Lanner was staying. He was lucky I have such a firm grip.

“But you did know her.”

“Yes!” he gasped, and, much to my approval, he stopped flailing, instead choosing to wrap his arms around mine and hold on for dear life. Good. It was always nice to see survival instincts in these situations. “Yes, I knew her! I’ll tell you everything, just—”

I hit the release on my grapple, letting the two of us drop towards the city street below. As Lanner screamed bloody murder in my arms, I reangled my arm and reshot the mechanism towards the edge of the rooftop across the street. The catch of the cord reversed our fall in an instant, and within seconds I’d landed us safely on the roof’s solid ground.

When I dropped Lanner next to me, he scrambled away to empty the contents of his stomach onto the cement. I watched in relative sympathy. I’d never grappled drunk — rarely got drunk at all, generally just faking the consumption of alcohol to preserve my image — but Dick had told me once that it was a particularly unpleasant experience.

“Talk,” I ordered, once Lanner had finished heaving up what looked like an entire bowl of caviar.

“I-I only knew Karrie for a short time,” Lanner said, pulling a designer sleeve up to wipe off his mouth, then lowering it again as he evidently considered otherwise. “Maybe a month. I liked her, we had a lot of fun, but she never wanted to commit to something serious.”

“Sounds like she was keeping her options open,” I said, handing him a tissue from my utility belt.  
He stared dubiously at the offering before taking it. “Yeah,” he said as he cleaned his face. “I figured that when I saw a picture of Karrie and that Wayne guy. I’d heard they never officially broke it off. Looked to me like she might try and go exclusive with him.”

The disgust in his voice made me suspect that if Lanner had killed anyone it probably would have been Bruce Wayne, not Karrie Bishop. But the presence of that violent anger at all pushed me to keep pressing him with questions. “And how did you react to that?”

He smirked. “Badly,” he said. “I’m the first to admit that I’ve got a temper. Couple run-ins with the cops, a night or two in holding when I’m too drunk to call my lawyer. When I saw that photo, I went nuts.” He looked up at me, expression serious. “But I never laid a hand on Karrie, I swear. Just yelled and broke a few glasses. The folks who heard me in the Treasure Chest can vouch for that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “The dive on 19th and Bay?”

He laughed a little. It was possible he was slightly delirious. “Seems low class, doesn’t it? But you’d be surprised by what you can find, associating with the rank and file.”

There wasn’t much that could surprise me anymore, and I just stared at Lanner in response. He frowned and pulled himself up to his feet, brushing off his lapels. “Karrie stormed out, I stayed. Never left the place until closing. Zeke the bartender could tell you. I waited a day to cool off before calling Karrie again, but...”

“But she was dead,” I finished for him. The grief in his eyes was real, though not necessarily proof of his innocence. If he had killed Karrie, it certainly hadn’t been out of a lack of care. I aimed my grapple at a skyscraper across the way, but looked back over my shoulder at Lanner before I fired. “Give your statement to Gordon,” I advised. “He might just buy it.”

I launched myself into the sky, the Gotham air blowing against me as I swung over the city streets. My communicator had been silent all night; I should have time to double-check with Zeke. The Treasure Chest was a while out of my way, but not too long of a drive; I summoned the Batmobile from where I’d hidden it several blocks over and dropped down to an alleyway where I could get in without causing a commotion.

As I drove towards the Treasure Chest, I wondered if Riddler had already spoken to Lanner. Karrie and her possessive friend hadn’t been publicly dating, but if Alfred had been able to put their relationship together from candid photos of Gotham’s club life, it seemed likely that Riddler had already done the same. For all his ego and bluster, there was a brilliant mind hidden behind Edward’s criminal compulsions and rampant narcissism. Karrie’s uncle hadn’t been completely insane to think that he could solve her murder, though making the actual decision to release the Riddler from Arkham made me put his sanity in doubt regardless.

Of course, grief can make people do crazy things. It would be easier to judge Mr. Bishop were I not currently climbing out of my bat-themed street tank, adjusting my cape so that it billowed behind me at a more intimidating angle as I kicked open the door of a pirate-themed dive bar.

Zeke the bartender was able to confirm Greg’s story, though the back room I interrogated him in had several blatant health code violations. As I walked out I was debating sending an anonymous tip to the Gotham Department of Public Health, but all thoughts of food safety dissipated when I saw the man leaning against the side of the Batmobile.

“What’s this?” Riddler asked, smirking superiorly. “Is the great Batman out of clues?” He lazily twirled his question mark cane, then tucked it under his arm. “That was a rhetorical question, by the way. Not a riddle.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Get off my car.”

Riddler did, though he wasn’t looking particularly intimidated as he did so. “Following up on the Karrie Bishop case, I see. Have a personal stake in this one, do you?”

I kept my face purposefully blank. Was that supposed to be a hint that he remembered my identity, or was he just being purposefully rude? It could be both. It was Riddler, after all.

“I always take murder personally in Gotham,” I said, which wasn’t untrue. “I heard you were hired to play detective. Where’s your photo crew?”

“I sent them home,” Riddler said, grinning as he strolled past me, making his way towards a door at the other end of the building. “This is where the real brainwork begins. Watch me, Dark Knight— you might learn something.”

He opened the door, revealing a long, poorly lit stairway leading down under the bar. Despite my better judgement, I walked over to follow him. Riddler seemed pleased by the motion.

“Your instincts were right to come here,” he said, the tone of his voice implying that he felt it was a gracious compliment. “But you used the wrong entrance. Go ahead,” he said, gesturing towards the stairs with his cane. “No deathtraps, I promise.”

I wasn’t particularly eager to have Riddler walking behind me with that cane of his. The chances of him getting the drop on me when I was aware of his presence were pretty low, however, so I swallowed my sigh of exasperation and made my way down the stairs. Riddler followed close behind — a little too close in terms of personal space, but I didn’t mind. His proximity would just make it easier to throw off his balance if he took a swing with the cane.

“Did you notice the scars on Lanner’s wrists?” Riddler asked over my shoulder.

So he really had talked to Lanner. “Handcuff marks,” I replied. “Probably received while he struggled with the police.”

Riddler chuckled as we stepped out of the stairwell into a subterranean hallway. “You’re so naive, Batman!” he said, cheerfully playing with his cane as we walked through the graffitied walls. “The world is just cops and robbers to you. You understand so little about the city you’re compelled to protect.”

The dull hum of electronic music grew louder as we passed further into the tunnels, and as we turned a corner to see a masked man standing in front of two thick, red curtains, the volume reached a crescendo.

“When I saw those scars and heard Lanner was a regular at the Treasure Chest, I knew where he really went,” Riddler said smugly. “Hiya, Vincent.”

“Eddie!” the doorman said, opening his arms in greeting. As I got closer, I realized his mask was... not the kind I typically encountered during muggings and bank robberies. His chest and arms were bare except for a few piercings and a pair of silver manacles, and his leather pants were tight enough that I wondered if it was cutting off his circulation. “It’s been too long!”

Riddler smiled at him, though did not make any movement to accept the offered hug. “Well, you know. Arkham. Metropolis. Coma. Memory loss. Arkham again.”

The doorman seemed to take the hint, and dropped his arms to pull back the velvet curtain. “Well, don’t let me stop you from catching up with everyone,” he said, not sounding particularly offended. “And you brought your own Bat, too! Just like old—”

“Welcome to Pandora’s Box, Batman,” Riddler said, walking swiftly through the curtains as he cut off the doorman. Vincent’s mouth — what I could see of it, anyway — made an “O” shape as I followed him into the room. I blinked as the lenses in my cowl adjusted to the flashing red lighting.

“Here, every nasty little desire you’ve ever suppressed is allowed to come out and play,” Riddler continued, gesturing around the room at a crowd that did not look all that suppressed to me. “You’ll fit right in, what with all that leather you’re wearing.”

“It’s kevlar,” I said, scanning the room for threats. Nothing made itself apparent. Just many, many sweaty people doing a wide and unusual variety of sweaty things. “You remember the doorman at an S&M club, but not the vast majority of your criminal activity?”

Riddler sniffed, looking offended. “Query and Echo introduced me to this place,” he said, as if that was an explanation. It might have been; I’d never fully understood his strange companionship with his ex-henchgirls. At one time I discovered that Riddler was splitting takes with them an even three ways, though at the time I’d interpreted it as a result of his caring more about the intellectual challenge of crime than the financial reward. But if their friendship had been genuine, then that could explain why he was able to recall time he’d spent at their side. Before his release, the doctors at Arkham had believed that Riddler was making progress with his memory. That’s what had me so worried.

“It wouldn’t be on your radar, of course,” Riddler continued, “but I know it well. After all, not everyone—”

“Evening, Pandora,” I said, recognizing a face in the crowd. The blonde woman smiled warmly in my direction as she waved and made her way over. “I didn’t know you had an access tunnel through the Treasure Chest.”

“Batman!” she said, kissing my cheek in greeting. “It’s a new one. We run through most of the other dives, so I figured why not, right?”

“How’s business?” I asked, less out of genuine interest and more out of curiosity at how flushed with frustration the Riddler’s face could become.

“Oh, you know,” Pandora said, pushing her bleached hair back behind an ear. “Can’t complain, especially after that clown riot last week. Thanks for breaking that up, by the way.”

“Of course,” I said. From the corner of my eye I watched as Riddler crossed his arms, radiating sullen annoyance. A few of the leather-bound regulars approached him with friendly greetings, only to be batted away without a glance. “One good turn deserves another, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmm,” she said, biting her lip coquettishly. “Yes, I believe I have been known to say that.”

“Gregory Lanner,” I said, diplomatically ignoring her implication. “What do you know?”

Pandora smirked, and gestured towards her office in the back. I walked after her, Riddler trailing from behind. “I’m not much for talking out of school,” Pandora said as she pulled open the door and walked inside. “But since it’s for you...” she continued, dropping down into a comfortable-looking leather desk chair, “...and since I happen to find Gregory incredibly annoying... I’ll spill.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, following her inside. Riddler closed the door behind him when he entered as well, muffling the music of the club.

“Greg’s thing is cuffs,” Pandora explained, picking a black switch off her desk and pointing it at the impressive collection of manacles and chains she had hanging on her wall. “Sometimes he comes with two or three girls to add to the fun.”

“I thought as much,” Riddler said, his smug aura seeming to have regenerated itself completely. He pulled a photo out of his jacket pocket. “Have you ever seen her in his company?”

Pandora leaned forward to examine the picture. “Sure, a couple of times,” she said. “She’s been one of his regulars lately. Her and a brunette.”

“Got a name for the brunette?” I asked.

She smiled apologetically. “If they don’t volunteer a name, I don’t ask.”

I nodded. Worth a shot. “That’s fine, Pandora,” I said. “I can certainly understand the desire to keep one’s identity private.” Riddler didn’t react, though I figured that one was worth a shot too.

“I could let you know if I hear anything else,” Pandora offered. “Keep you updated if Greg or the brunette come in again.”

“Please do,” Riddler cut in before I could reply. He handed Pandora a small, rectangular piece of card stock.

“E. Nygma, consulting detective,” she read out loud.

“There’s a phone number,” he prompted, then glanced back at me with a smirk. “Might be a little easier to use than convincing the Commissioner to let you borrow the Bat Signal.”

I didn’t bother resisting the urge to roll my eyes, since the cowl prevented the action from being visible.

“Oh,” Pandora said, turning around to open a file cabinet and place the card in a folder inside. Once her back was to me, I started moving towards the door. “Well! This was fun. Is there anything else I can get the two of you while you’re—”

Either she stopped talking when she realized I was no longer in the room, or the volume of the club proper was preventing me from hearing her. Riddler joined me a moment later, running slightly to catch up with my long strides as I headed towards the curtain.

“So you really do that to everyone, huh,” he said as we re-entered the tunnels. “I suppose it’s flattering to know your manners are terrible with all levels of society, not just the criminal element.”

“Lanner said he was at the Chest alone the night Karrie died,” I said.

Riddler didn’t seem to mind the abrupt shift in conversation; instead, he grinned at the unspoken prompt. “He could have slipped through the tunnel into Pandora’s place,” Riddler concluded for me, gesturing at our surroundings with his cane. “From there, he could have exited the complex through one of the other tunnels, popped the girl...”

I glared at him as we reached the stairwell, though if he noticed my distaste for his phrasing he didn’t broadcast it.

“...and slipped back to the Treasure Chest, his alibi still intact,” Riddler finished, pausing at the top of the stairs. His eyes lit up as I pressed a button on my gauntlet, opening the doors of the Batmobile... both doors, a fact he certainly couldn’t have missed.

“In light of our recent discoveries, I have a few more questions for Mr. Lanner,” I said, stepping into the car. Riddler followed — hesitating for a moment at the door, a look of uncertainty on his face — but then he was inside, his expression as smug as ever.

“As do I,” Riddler agreed. “And with my superior skills of deduction in play, we might even get our answers without having to throw anyone out of a window.”

I chose not to respond. Instead, I started the ignition, backing the car out of the alley and onto Gotham’s streets. With any luck, the time it had taken to investigate Pandora’s Box had given Lanner enough time to get down from the rooftop where I’d left him and return to his hotel room.

“So,” Riddler said eventually, breaking what I had hoped would be reflective silence.

I didn’t say anything.

“Nice car,” he continued, undeterred.

Silence.

He thumbed the tip of his cane and glanced out the window. “First time I’ve been in it conscious.”

That wasn’t true, which was somewhat reassuring. Two years ago I’d had to hogtie a screaming, flailing Riddler into the same seat he sat in now, forcing him to point out where he’d hid each of his bombs on Gotham’s Miracle Mile. If he didn’t remember that, then maybe he didn’t remember that Batman and Bruce Wayne were the same person.

Or maybe he was lying.

“Don’t touch anything,” I said instead of correcting him.

He huffed, pointedly placing his hands on his knees. “You know, I—”

I held up a hand, silencing him. “Come in, Robin,” I said, tapping the button to open Damian’s incoming video transmission.

“I was right,” Damian said as soon as his image flickered to life on the console screen. “Falcone is moving his weapons tonight, and you’ll never guess who the buyer is.”

“Two-Face,” I said, already mentally calculating the fastest route to the docks.

“I told you he’d be able to guess,” Tim said from off-screen.

Damian glared off to his right. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you have something to say? Maybe about how you thought the _rocket launcher_ was going to be a box of hand guns?”

“There is also a box of hand guns!” Tim protested. “It’s not like I was the one who— is that _Riddler_?”

Tim’s masked face was suddenly crowding the camera. Damian growled and elbowed him back out of the frame.

“Hello, Robins,” Riddler said, waving at the screen with a smirk. “You are both Robins, correct? There are so many of you, and my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“I assumed we weren’t acknowledging his presence,” Damian said. “You need to get rid of him, anyway. Your presence is required at the docks.”

Riddler fumed in his seat. “Batman and I are working on a case, you little brat. Can’t you take care of Harvey yourself? Two of you, two of him. Should be a fair fight.”

“The Karrie Bishop murder, right?” Tim asked, his voice sympathetic. Evidently Alfred had filled him in. “I hate to interrupt, really, but—”

“Then don’t,” Riddler snapped. “Riddle me this: when the home grows too crowded, the mother relents. Her children fly freely; what caused this event?”

I pulled the car over. “Out,” I said, flipping a switch to open the door on Riddler’s side.

He glared at me. “Not exactly the answer I was looking for, but partial points for the theatrical demonstration.”

“Lanner can wait,” I said. “This is important.”

“Then I’ll wait in the car,” Riddler said, crossing his legs petulantly. “Harvey isn’t so tough. I’m sure you’ll have him and his gang trussed up before I get too terribly bored.”

Damian snorted. “If you think he’s going to leave you in that car unattended, you’re even less sane than you look.” He glanced over Riddler’s choice of attire. “Which, in your case, is really saying something.”

“Out,” I repeated. This time, Riddler seemed to take the hint.

“Fine,” he said, stepping out of the car with as much grace as he could muster. “There’s some logic to your plebeian choice in prioritization, I suppose. After all,” he said with a cruel grin, “there’s not much you can do for Ms. Bishop now, can you? She’s already dead.”

The door slammed shut. Riddler stumbled backwards, though the reaction didn’t give me as much satisfaction as I would have hoped. He was still saying something as I sped off, driving as quickly as possible in the direction of the docks.

“I heard he was at the manor this morning,” Tim said. “I can’t believe Bishop really hired him to solve a crime.”

“I can’t believe you let him in the car,” Damian said, disgusted. “In my seat, no less. Wasn’t there room in the trunk?”

I decided to redirect the conversation. “How many are there?”

. . .

“That sounds like quite a lot of men,” Alfred said as he set down a tray with three ice packs. I let Tim and Damian grab theirs first before picking one up to hold against my forehead.

“No kidding,” Tim said. “Mission accomplished, though! We’ve had worse nights, I feel.”

“Certainly,” Alfred agreed. “Oh, Master Bruce,” he said, his hand going to his pocket. “I almost forgot. You have several missed calls on your personal line, all from the same unknown number.”

I frowned. “Sofia?” I guessed. The ballerina was the last woman I’d given that number to, though from our conversation at Veronica’s soiree last weekend I wouldn’t have pegged her as the type to call more than once before waiting for a reply.

“Clingy,” Damian decreed from his perch on top of my chair. “Cut her loose now, Father. Save yourself unnecessary grief later.”

I took the phone as Alfred handed it to me, typing in my passcode. There were seven missed calls in total, which made me wonder if Damian might not be right. For the sake of everyone involved, I generally tried to keep Bruce Wayne’s relationships as casual as possible. So long as no one was emotionally invested in the relationship, it could be mutually beneficial — socially, anyway. Karrie had made a perfect date in that regard. It hurt to think that what had endeared her to Bruce Wayne might have gotten her killed dating Gregory Lanner.

I got up as I dialed the unknown number, walking over to an uninhabited area of the cave and glaring at Damian when he attempted to stealthily follow. The caller picked up after a half a ring.

“Mr. Wayne, I presume?”

I stopped in my tracks. “Riddler?”

“Edward,” he corrected. “Though I also answer to ‘Mr. Nigma, sir,’ if you feel so inclined.”

“I don’t remember giving you my phone number,” I said warily. Was this the Riddler’s revenge for being sidelined? Harassing Batman’s secret identity?

“Yes, that was quite thoughtless of you,” Riddler said, either unaware or undeterred by the obvious unspoken question in my words. “How did you think we were going to decide on a date and time?”

For interrogating Lanner? “I didn’t realize we’d made an appointment,” I said carefully.

Riddler sighed, dramatically, into the phone. “Surely you have some experience with people playing hard to get?” he asked. “No, of course not. For a moment I almost forgot who I was talking to.”

“I’ll try not to be offended,” I said, though mostly I was trying to figure out who he did think he was talking to.

“You do that,” he said, and I swore I could hear his smirk through the phone. “Now, Mr. Wayne. I believe this morning you said something about brunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Damian aren't in the original comic, but the original comic takes place over the course of a single evening and this is a slowburn fanfiction, so they have been added for the sake of padding. Bruce also doesn't get a nap in the original comic, which is very worrying, though it may explain why he never questioned how weird Riddler's memory situation is. Please sleep, Bruce.


	3. Something About Brunch

I’d insisted on picking up Riddler that morning, hoping to save myself the trouble of stalking him back to wherever he was staying the next night I had time in costume. He’d protested, but relinquished the point when I claimed that there was no reason for _both_ of us to have to pay the restaurant’s parking fee — which was actually true, though it wouldn’t have been a convincing argument for most of Bruce Wayne’s social circle. 

Unfortunately, despite his eventual agreement, I recognized with a glance that the address he texted me was the Gotham Public Library. Apparently Bruce Wayne hadn’t earned the honor of seeing where the great Riddler hung his eclectic green derby hat. 

Wherever that was, his hat was still hanging there; barely a moment after I texted Riddler my arrival he emerged from behind the library doors, looking considerably less.... well, _Riddler_ than usual. Instead of the bright green question marked attire he’d been wearing yesterday, he’d dressed down with a black dress shirt and purple tie. 

As he got closer, I realized Riddler had taken “dressing down” quite literally; they were the same clothes he’d been wearing under his custom jacket last night. As he approached, I leaned over to open the car door.

He smirked when he caught my gaze. “Do I clean up nicely, Mr. Wayne?” he asked, dropping into the passenger seat much more casually than he’d done in the Batmobile the evening before. He’d showered, at least — even at these close quarters, I couldn’t detect the unfortunately distinctive smell of Pandora’s Box on his person. It had taken me a considerable amount of time to scrub the scent off even _with_ the benefit of a protective layer of kevlar. 

“I didn’t know you came in colors other than green,” I said as I turned the key in the ignition. “And no cane, either! Don’t tell me — they went out of fashion and I missed it.”

Riddler rolled his eyes. “I thought it best for your reputation if you _weren’t_ seen in public with the high profile private detective working the murder case in which you were recently a suspect,” he said. “Seeing as I just went through all the trouble of acquitting you.”

I laughed, assuming it was a joke. His annoyed expression suggested otherwise.

“You’re still _you_ ,” I protested. “You think people won’t recognize the Riddler just because you aren’t wearing a giant question mark on your forehead?”

“I don’t ‘think’ anything of the sort,” he said, his tone reminiscent of a teacher explaining basic arithmetic to an exceptionally stupid child. “I _know_ they won’t. I’ve gotten away with a significant amount of infiltration and reconnaissance for that exact reason. You think _you_ would have recognized me if you hadn’t expected my presence?”

Of course I would have. It wasn’t even a question. How many times had I picked through hazy security footage to spot Nigma disguised in a crowd? Certainly enough that I could recognize him wearing three fifths of his costume in broad daylight.

But as I glanced in Riddler’s direction, I thought I could understand what he meant. As implausible as it seemed in the face of his larger-than-life personality, Riddler’s features weren’t especially remarkable. The most memorable aspect of his appearance was a crook to the bridge of his nose, but he hadn’t come by that feature naturally; that was my handiwork, the inevitable result of cartilage too frequently broken. 

That didn’t mean there weren’t attributes to memorize, if one had reason to. His downturned olive green eyes. The rounded rise of his cheekbones. A slight dimple to his chin. The furrowed set of his brow when he was annoyed with everyone around him.

“Probably not,” I lied.

Riddler gave a small hum of satisfaction, evidently pleased that I’d agreed without protest. He began tapping his fingers against his knee — not in morse code or any similar cipher, though I couldn’t help listening to check —and for a second I thought we might sit in near-companionable silence.

“So.”

I restrained myself from sighing. 

“Nice car,” he mused, running a hand across the door’s leather interior.

Didn’t that sound familiar. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m reasonably sure that it was expensive.”

He smirked. “Hmm. Well, your hypothetical money was well spent. I can say with absolute certainty that this is the nicest car I’ve been in for a considerable while.”

He was taunting me. He knew my secret identity and he was taunting me. 

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that I rank above whatever Arkham used to drive you back and forth between parole hearings,” I said. “I’m sure my competition was pretty stiff.”

“Oh, it is, Mr. Wayne,” Riddler said. “I assure you. Now,” he continued as the Regent Grill came into view, “let’s see if this meal is as quality as you led me to believe over the phone.”

The valet seemed about as enthused with my car as Riddler. If he recognized Nigma, he didn’t show it; neither did the hostess who greeted us at the front desk. I was beginning to see the benefit of wearing that ridiculous derby hat everywhere — Gothamites seemed incapable of registering him as Riddler without it.

“Right this way Mr. Wayne,” the hostess said before I had spoken a word. “We’re _so_ happy you’ll be dining with us this morning.”

“The service is friendly,” Riddler noted as we followed the hostess to my usual table near the balcony windows at the back. “To you, anyway.” 

“I’m naturally gregarious,” I said, smiling warmly at the hostess as she set down our menus. She flushed, tucking a stray hair back behind a pierced ear. “Or maybe it’s the billionaire thing.”

“I’m sure it’s the former,” Riddler offered diplomatically. 

“You can find today’s specials here,” the hostess said, setting an embossed piece of cardstock at each of our places. “Joseph will be over to take your drink orders in a moment.” I gave her a polite wave as she turned back towards her station at the front.

Riddler opened the menu, leaning backwards in his chair as he read. “I have to say, Mr. Wayne, I’m surprised this was your first choice in dining establishments.”

“What, because this is where my imposter met with Karrie last week?” I asked. “I don’t see why that means he should get custody of the whole restaurant. I take dates here all the time.”

Riddler paused his flipping through the menu. “Do you?” he asked, tone casual. 

“Sure,” I said. “I think Karrie and I might have gone on our first date here, actually.” 

Which, now that I thought about it, may have been why the imposter chose the Regent Grill for Bruce Wayne’s false rendezvous with the late Ms. Bishop. It would definitely have had sentimental appeal for Karrie — and it was something she might have told Lanner about while they were dating. Riddler must have been on my same line of thought, as he appeared to be trying to formulate a follow-up question when our waiter arrived at the table.

“Have you two gentlemen decided what you’d like to drink?” he asked.

“I’m ready to order my meal, actually,” Riddler said. “Wayne?”

“Works for me,” I said with a smile. I waited for the waiter to get out his pad. “The Dark Star to drink — no cream or sugar, please — and for my meal I’ll have the Beaumont, but hold the bread, if you don’t mind.”

I turned to Riddler, who was looking down at the menu. “I’ll take an order of the smoked salmon florentine,” he said. “I also want the stuffed french toast, the pava tocino omelette, the Rock Spring biscuits and gravy, and the calabaza crepes.” He folded up the menu and set it down at the edge of the table. “Oh, and a cranberry-orange mimosa,”

I stared at him as the waiter struggled to copy down his order. He raised an eyebrow in response, silently challenging me to object. I didn’t; just smiled and nodded at the waiter, who must have been somewhat shell-shocked because he wandered away without asking if he could get us anything else.

“I take it you’re used to dates who only order half a salad,” Riddler said once the waiter was gone.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m just wondering if you have a second stomach where you’re planning on putting all that. I mean, you weigh what? 110?”

Riddler rolled his eyes. He usually weighed anywhere from 145 to 160 pounds, depending on how much he was eating, which I knew from experience could be next to nothing when he was in an especially manic mood. If the irritating crook wanted to eat himself into oblivion on Bruce Wayne’s dime, I couldn’t particularly bring myself to mind.

“Hilarious,” he said. “With your winning wit, Mr. Wayne, I imagine you could have had an illustrious career as an Arkham prison guard. It’s tragic that the path of life took you down less fortunate avenues.”

“Coming from you, that means a lot,” I said. Our waiter returned with our drinks; Riddler started in on his mimosa immediately, which gave me the distinct hope that he might become more forthcoming as the alcohol took influence. “So what made you change your mind?”

Riddler glanced up at me. “Pardon?”

“About brunch,” I clarified. “When I first offered, you didn’t seem too enthused about the prospect.” He looked somewhat uncomfortable at the question, so I continued. “I mean, not that it hurt my feelings or anything...”

He chuckled at that. “Well, I’d certainly hate to bruise your ego,” he said, setting down his drink. “If you must know, there was some research I had to conduct before accepting.”

“Research?” I asked, genuinely curious. 

“Nothing groundbreaking,” he said. “Just little things, like, oh, whether you’ve ever publicly sworn your hatred for costumed criminals. What decisions you’ve spearheaded during your time on Arkham’s board of directors.” He took another sip of his mimosa. “If I’ve ever kidnapped you.”

He had, several times, though only when I’d been dressed as a bat. “And?”

“Well,” he said, straightening up in his chair. “Your only truly venhement statements on public record are in regards to gun control, you’re responsible for the innovation of one of my _least_ favorite straightjackets, and as far as I can tell, I haven’t done anything to you that would inspire a false invitation to brunch secretly intended as a chance to kill, maim, or otherwise humiliate me.” He took another sip. “So I figured, why not?”

Interesting. So Riddler had gaps in his memory regarding Bruce Wayne — or, at least, he was claiming to. Either way, I decided to push at the obvious flaw in his research. 

“That’s not true, actually,” I said, lifting my coffee cup to my lips.

Riddler paled slightly, though his expression otherwise hadn’t shifted from casual indifference. “Oh?” he asked, folding his hands neatly on the table.

“You and your gang robbed a fundraiser I put together for the development of a hospital in Gotham’s East End,” I explained. “The financial losses were phenomenal, though nothing I couldn’t have covered personally. The real point of the event had been to smooth things over with the Gotham officials whose zoning laws blocked projects requiring city resources from being built in crime-ridden neighborhoods.” 

I took another sip of my coffee. “Months of effort carefully cultivating goodwill for the project vanished in about thirty minutes of you terrorizing my guests. Not to mention your execution of the only councilmember fully sympathetic to the project, for the crime of not being able to answer a children’s riddle about doctors.”

Riddler’s expression had now shifted significantly from casual indifference. “That’s not—” he started, then tried again. “You never— I would have—” 

“I assume it didn’t come up in your research because it wasn’t _technically_ my party,” I said. “The hospital wasn’t my passion, it was Silver St. Cloud’s. She approached me with the project because I have experience with that kind of thing, and I organized a few key events for her on the down-low.” 

Poor Silver. She’d been completely heartbroken — not to mention traumatized — by the time of the event’s conclusion. 

“Although, it’s funny — I think at the time, you actually knew that I was the one bankrolling the fundraiser, even though Silver was hosting it at her place,” I said. “At least, I assume that’s why _I_ was the one you imprisoned in an oversized mechanical Chinese finger trap while you robbed everyone at gunpoint.”

“One would think a detail like that could have been mentioned in an article covering the event,” Riddler said carefully, though his frustration was evident from how tightly he was gripping his glass.

I shrugged. “Oh, someone spilled their drink on the thing and it short-circuited. I’d wriggled out of it _way_ before the cops or anyone like that arrived. Besides, it wasn’t after too long that Batman showed up, and I’m guessing the reporters found him more—”

Riddler put his head in his hands, his features furrowed in distress. For a second I thought it might be guilt, as implausible as that would be, but it only took another instant for me to recognize the expression for what it really was — pain. 

“Are you okay?” I asked quickly, pulling out my phone to call for medical assistance. Riddler batted my hand away, shaking his head distractedly. 

“When is a doctor most annoyed?” he eventually muttered, carefully massaging his temple.

I answered automatically. “When he’s out of patients.” 

Riddler nodded, smirking weakly. “Yes,” he said, and he raised his glass to take another drink. “I don’t see why that one was so difficult for Councilman Evans.” 

I snatched the mimosa out of his shaking hand before it reached his lips. He glared at me; I ignored him and gestured for a nearby waitress to come to our table.

“Could he have a glass of water, please?” I asked when she’d come into earshot. 

“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” the waitress said, hurrying off. 

“Thank you!” I called at her retreating back, then turned back to Riddler. “So you _do_ remember.” 

Riddler sighed. “I do now,” he said. “You painted a... very detailed picture of the evening. Parts of it snagged — well. The night is coming back to me.”

“It looked painful,” I said, the sympathy in my voice not entirely faked. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said, reaching for his drink. I pulled it further out of his reach, raising an eyebrow. “Really,” he insisted. “This was nothing. It was much worse earlier on. One night of armed robbery isn’t nearly as central a memory as, I don’t know, my _name_.” 

He froze. “Although I imagine the evening might hold slightly more importance to someone who was more personally affected,” he said, his voice guarded. Then he sighed. “I suppose I should just ask: do you have intentions of revenge, Mr. Wayne?” 

His green eyes met mine — cold, calculating, and glimmering with just the slightest indication of fear. 

This was reassuring, actually. Unless Riddler was _truly_ committing to the act — a possibility I was never going to fully discount, given who I was dealing with — it made very little sense for him to only be concerned about my motivations in the context of a party gone wrong. Batman had plenty of reasons to hate the Riddler; if he knew my secret identity, presumably it wouldn’t have mattered that Bruce Wayne had one too. 

“Please,” I scoffed. “We got it built eventually. Evan Memorial Hospital is on the corner of 12th and Lind. Thank you,” I added, that last bit directed towards the waitress who’d just brought over a glass of water. 

“You’re asking me to believe that you hold _no_ hard feelings?” Riddler asked skeptically. 

I glanced pointedly at his water. He rolled his eyes and picked up the glass, taking a drink.

“You’ve robbed a lot of places and killed a lot of people,” I said. “I feel like it would be pretty shallow of me to hate you specifically because one of those places was my fundraiser, and one of those people was my party guest.”

“That leaves open the possibility that you just hate me in general,” Riddler observed. “And no offense, Mr. Wayne, but you don’t have a reputation as being particularly deep.” 

“ _Ouch_ ,” I said, feigning hurt. As if that wasn’t a reputation I had cultivated, painstakingly. “Okay, now? Now I hate you. And don’t think you’re getting this back until you finish that water,” I added when I saw him start to reach for the mimosa again. “That headache made _me_ feel dehydrated, and I was just watching you have it.”

“Then _you_ should be the one drinking this,” he grumbled, but lifted the glass obediently. We sat in actual, blessed silence as he drank, tilting back his head to expedite the process. When he finished he gave me an expectant glare, and I dutifully returned his original beverage. 

“I don’t see how you acquired your prolific reputation for sexual conquest if you’re always this stingy with your date’s alcohol consumption,” Riddler said, taking a hard-earned sip of his drink.

I frowned. “That is— okay. First of all, morally, I have to object to the implication that I would sleep with someone I didn’t have sober consent from.”

Riddler toasted me with his glass before taking another drink, though I had a feeling the gesture was sarcastic.

“Second of all, vainly, I have to object to the implication that anyone would have to be drunk in order to _want_ to sleep with me.” 

“Were we all so fortunate,” Riddler muttered before downing the remainder of his mimosa.

“Lastly,” I continued, “most of my dates aren’t men who recently woke up from comas that left them with lingering brain trauma causing massive memory loss.”

“We’re a very narrow demographic,” he agreed, then glanced up at me curiously. “Of course, my research would indicate that your dates typically aren’t _men_ , period.”

I must have looked startled, because in an instant he had withdrawn, suddenly much more fascinated with his empty glass.

“No need to look so horrified, Wayne,” Riddler said, tracing the rim of the glass with his index finger. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I protested. “I was going to say—”

What? What was I going to say? It wasn’t as if he was wrong. My dates typically weren’t men. Were _never_ men. Not because of any illusions I held about lack of interest; I worked hard to be self-aware, after all, and _that_ had been obvious since adolescence. 

I hadn’t done much with that awareness then, though to be fair my interest in girls hadn’t really gone anywhere either. I’d been focused on my future then, to the exclusion of anything else. Even the naive beginnings of my current public persona had been an afterthought; just a charming smile for whenever the Wayne Enterprises board of trustees put me on a sound stage to read a speech about how my parents would have loved their mindless business venture of the week. 

The training I’d left for at 18 hadn’t left much time for experimentation either.... and when I returned to Gotham seven years later, I hadn’t exactly been looking for a relationship. Alfred had set up dates for me — ostensibly just so Bruce Wayne was seen in public as someone other than a crazed monosyllabic vigilante, but with an obvious underhanded plot for me to fall in love, settle down, and stop being a crazed monosyllabic vigilante — and one of them had been a man. It had been one of the weirder ways to find out that your extremely British butler and replacement father figure had known you were bisexual longer than you did, but it hadn’t been unwelcome. Neither of us had _advertised_ that it was a date, per se, since I’d only just returned to Gotham and wasn’t yet going out of my way to enrage the board of trustees. But it had been nice, and as the night had progressed it had started to seem pretty likely that the press present at our evening entertainment would figure out what we were doing whether we told them or not. 

But then two of the entertainers distracted every reporter and photographer present by falling to their deaths, and a week later I had an orphaned acrobat living in my home named Richard Grayson. 

I’d known, going into it, that the process of adopting Dick as my ward would cause a scandal. There was no way that the 25 year old heir of the biggest fortune in Gotham adopting a 14 year old circus performer could do anything but. What I hadn’t known was how people would speculate about it; the reasons people would suggest for why an unmarried, adult man wanted an adolescent boy living in his home. 

That was the real birth of the Bruce Wayne persona; the shallow, womanizing playboy that gossip rags couldn’t get enough of. He’d gotten me through the adoptions of Dick, Jason, and Tim. I’d worried that he would do more harm than good with Cassandra, but by that time Bruce Wayne’s reputation as “spoiled manwhore” had developed a fascinating secondary mutation of “hapless sitcom father” — and the only speculation when she joined the household was on whether serial adoption could be classified as an addiction. 

The other helpful thing about Bruce Wayne — the reason why I still put so much effort into maintaining his vapid, skirt-chasing personality, even after the boys had grown and gone — is that there was no way in hell that Bruce Wayne could be Batman. 

“— I don’t really know what I was going to say,” I admitted. I’d paused for so long that Riddler had stopped staring at his glass to look up at me. “But can we just assume that whatever it was, it would have been both charming _and_ politically sensitive?” 

Riddler smirked. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night,” he said.

“Oh, thank God,” I said. “While we’re at it, can we also assume that it was macho enough to preserve my masculinity?” 

“Maybe if you buy me dessert.”

“Sold,” I said. “Terrible negotiation, though. My masculinity is worth at least lunch. Ooh, speaking of!”

The waiters arrived with our food; one carrying mine, and several more hauling in the five course meal that Riddler had somehow considered “brunch.” The conversation while we ate was meaninglessly casual, which seemed mutually appreciated. I was satisfied with my prodding of Riddler’s memory (my estimation of how likely it was that he knew my secret identity had gone down to 15%, which was as low as I was willing to make it unless he collapsed into another coma), and Riddler seemed uninterested in asking me any more probing questions. By the time I’d polished off my Beaumont, he had taken around three bites of all of his entrees, and I watched as he called over our waiter.

“I need five boxes,” he said.

The waiter looked down at his nearly uneaten food, doing a relatively great job at not looking utterly appalled. “I— of course, sir. We can box these up in the back for you.”

“Oh, please,” Riddler snorted. “Just bring me the boxes. I’d rather save myself the trouble of re-doing it later.”

I sighed. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” I asked the waiter. “Thank you,” I said when he nodded and hurried off. “Also the check, please!”

I turned to Riddler. “I hope you tip well, if this is how you always treat waitstaff.”

“You know, I honestly don’t remember,” he said. “But based on my history of supervillainy, I’m going to have to guess... probably not.”

“Wow,” I said. “You really are evil.”

“Formerly evil,” he corrected as the waiter came rushing back, the check and a pile of boxes in tow. I handed the waiter my credit card without looking at the price, then watched as Riddler began to separate his leftovers into different containers, carefully pairing different proteins and flavors into what was looking suspiciously like five distinct meals.

“Formerly evil, maybe,” I said. “Currently shameless, definitely. Why do I feel like I’m also taking you out to breakfast, lunch and dinner?” 

“And breakfast, and lunch,” he added, looking incredibly satisfied with himself. “They’ll carry all this out to the car if you tell them to, right?”

I ignored him, instead holding out my hand as the waiter returned with my card and the receipt. I scrawled out the tip and handed it back to him; I caught him fist-bumping out of the corner of my eye as he walked back to the kitchen.

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Wayne,” Riddler said as I started to gather up his boxes. 

“Wait, were you not joking about dessert?” I asked. “Because I definitely assumed you were joking about dessert.”

“No, I saw what they seemed to think passes for an adequate dessert menu here,” he said dismissively. “I’m fine. I just meant I had another question, if you’ll allow me.”

God damn it. 

“Shoot,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I was just thinking that it would really help my investigation if you would be so generous as to provide me with the contact information of whatever Bruce Wayne impersonators you usually employ.”

I stared at him. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“I did mention that I conducted some light background research before accepting your invitation, yes?” Riddler said, looking innocently surprised at my shocked reaction. “It’s fascinating, but false Bruce Waynes showing up in public places isn’t quite as unusual an event as one might assume.”

“I—”

“Oh, you don’t have to explain, Mr. Wayne,” Riddler said with a smile. “I’m sure I could guess why a man as busy as yourself can’t go to _every_ event he’s invited to personally. After all, you have much more interesting things to do with your time, don’t you?”

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and managed to reign in the urge to throttle him. So much for 15%.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can tell that nothing in this chapter is from the original comic because it's just ten pages of dialogue with nothing happening, which is my specialty as a writer. 
> 
> The bit about adopting Dick and simultaneously adopting the playboy persona was an attempt at referencing DC's reaction to the 1954 book "Seduction of the Innocent," in which psychologist Fredric Wertham suggested that Batman and Robin were in a pedophillic homosexual relationship. DC responded by creating the first Batwoman and Batgirl as heterosexual love interests; here, Bruce buries his bisexuality and overemphasizes his interest in women in order to ensure that Dick doesn't have to deal with creepy comments and speculation. 
> 
> Other references include Edward not being recognizable out of costume except to people who "know" him, which was inspired by "Solitaire" (Batman Vol. 2 #23.2), an excellent Riddler one-shot comic I would definitely recommend if you've never read it. Bruce accusing Edward of being 110 pounds is a reference to "Arkham Asylum: Living Hell" (which is also an excellent comic, though comparatively light on Riddler content), where the Arkham guards have a running joke about Edward weighing 110.


	4. Raised by Bats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader convinced me to put together the 10 songs I listen to on loop while writing this fic into a single consolidated playlist, so I thought I would share it here. Really all of these are from Riddler's perspective, except for "Creature of the Night," which is the most Bruce song to ever Bruce. Spotify link here (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Q7nDMI2nVA0GTvYuHPqwt?si=Cap4xJgKSsqV9gwZ6ew3gw), and a Youtube one as well (https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLPs3n9OO0tiAnAM_M6cPkju6xU0lozwS) because Spotify doesn't have "Smarty" for some reason? Terrible.

I didn’t know how to explain to Riddler that most imposter Bruce Waynes were the same Kryptonian doing me a favor. Instead, I promised him that Alfred would be in contact with a list of whoever he normally hired when I was “too bored of someone to go to their parties myself.” 

He seemed satisfied with that, and while he used the restaurant's restroom I messaged Alfred about what I needed him to look up. To my surprise, it seemed like he wouldn’t need to do as much research as I thought. 

_What do you mean you "already know a few,"_ I texted him, shifting the pile of boxes in my arms so I could type more freely. 

_I mean, Master Bruce, that you and I have very different ideas about what social events are unimportant enough to ‘blow off’ for Justice League missions_ , came the reply. _And that’s not even counting the actors I pay to pose for your annual Christmas card._

 _I have an annual Christmas card?_ I texted back, then noticed Riddler walking in my direction. _We will definitely be discussing this later._

“I do hope you’re not endangering my groceries just to text one of your brain dead socialite acquaintances,” Riddler said as I shuffled the boxes to return my phone to my pocket. 

“If you’re worried about it, you could always carry the boxes yourself,” I suggested.

“Oh, I’d hate to deprive you of the exercise,” he said, walking over to wait by the door. I reigned in a sigh and pushed it open with my foot. “It would be tragic if all that charming musculature atrophied, what with the copious amounts of lounging required in a billionaire’s schedule.”

“Very motivating,” I said. Riddler stepped outside; I followed him. “If the whole detective thing doesn’t work out, you should consider becoming a personal trainer.” 

He snorted. “Please. Although when the 'detective thing' _does_ work out, I wouldn’t mind the number of yours.”

“He’s my butler, and he’s very busy,” I said. “So, what random location will I be dropping you off at? The post office? The YMCA?”

To my surprise, Riddler stiffened. “The library will be more than adequate, Mr. Wayne,” he said, scowling.

We walked in silence for a moment, and I felt a slight twinge of guilt. Usually it took a fist to the face to get the Riddler to stop talking. And half the time even that didn’t do the trick.

“You know,” I said eventually, “all the reformed supervillains call me Bruce.”

He stared at me over his shoulder. “Examples being?”

“Um,” I said eloquently. “Oh! Harvey.”

Riddler looked skeptical. “I wouldn’t exactly consider Mr. Dent _reformed._ I have it on good authority that he was illegally purchasing military grade weaponry as recently as last night.”

“He has good and bad days,” I protested. “Months. Look, he’s working on it. It’s a difficult process. I imagine you would know that better than anyone.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure Harvey has it very hard, trying to reform with the assistance of his eternally devoted billionaire friend,” he said. “I mean, you’ve only been willing to fund, what? Three separate facial reconstruction surgeries? And _barely_ visit him in Arkham on a weekly basis. How could I not relate to his terrible, terrible struggle?”

I glared at him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, trying and failing to keep my anger out of my voice.

“No,” he said, his voice enviably level despite the furious look in his eyes. “I really don’t.”

I was about to retort when the valet approached us. He looked deeply uncomfortable with our conversational energy, and nervously dropped the keys in my hands before quickly walking away.

I sighed. “The library?”

“The library,” Riddler repeated, looking away. 

. . . 

“No one’s been able to tie it to Falcone, of course,” Gordon said, lighting a cigarette with a grimace. “But I can’t imagine he’s happy about losing all that merchandise.”

“He must have been desperate to move it, if he was selling to Harvey,” I said. “Falcone hates costumed villains.”

“Just about the only thing he and I have in common,” Gordon remarked. “Oh, we visited Lanner’s hotel room after you alerted us to the problem with his alibi. Empty.”

“He checked out?”

“That’s the weird thing,” Gordon said, taking a long drag. “He didn’t. Room’s still being charged to his card. His stuff, though? All gone.”

“Not _all_ gone, dear Commissioner.”

Gordon ran a frustrated hand down his face as the Riddler stepped out of the shadows covering the GCPD rooftop. “Oh, for the love of— how long has this clown been up here?”

“He was here before I was,” I said.

“ _Not_ a clown, thank you!” Riddler said. “That’s a very specific appellation in this town.”

Gordon ignored him. “Well, thanks a lot for the heads up,” he muttered, shooting me a glare.

“My _point_ ,” Riddler continued, “is that I investigated Lanner’s hotel room long before your boys in blue got around to it. Though I’d be happy to accompany you on your own examination, Dark Knight, to ensure you don’t miss anything. Assuming your ego, as always, prevents you from taking anyone else’s estimation of a crime scene at face value.”

I considered it. His phrasing was somewhat insulting, but he wasn’t wrong about my interest in checking out the hotel room. And it would be easier to tell if Riddler had tampered with the evidence if he was present. I wouldn’t put it past him to purposefully hide a clue so that he could dramatically reveal it himself.

On the other hand, I was still feeling lingering frustration from our conversation about Harvey this morning, and I wasn’t confident in my ability to hide my annoyance with him. The ensuing ride to the library had been noticeably chilly, and in the case that he _didn’t_ already remember my identity, it seemed unwise to draw too many connections between Bruce Wayne and Batman’s emotional states. 

“Batman,” came Tim’s voice over the intercom. 

I lifted a hand to my cowl, activating my receiver. “Come in, Red Robin.”

“What, you’re color coding them now?” Riddler asked, sniffing disdainfully. “You know, there are _other_ birds, Batman.” 

“I think a turf war’s about to start on Reynolds and Washington,” Tim said. “Not many civilians around, but casualties between the gangs could be huge.” 

I started moving towards the edge of the roof, grateful that Tim had saved me from making a decision. “Are you already there?”

“I just left my informant’s apartment,” Tim said. “But I’m close. I’ll probably beat you there.”

“Don’t engage before I arrive,” I warned, and I could practically hear Tim rolling his eyes.

“Okay, _Alfred_ ,” he said, sounding amused. “I wasn’t going to. Try not to keep me waiting, though.”

The signal crackled out as Tim turned off his microphone. I turned to Gordon and Riddler.

“I’m needed elsewhere,” I said, pulling my grapple off my belt. “Gordon, let me know if Lanner returns to the hotel. And Riddler...”

I fired the hook at a nearby building. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

Riddler opened his mouth to object, but I swung out of earshot before he could get a word out in edgewise. I retracted my grapple as I landed in the shadow of a rooftop ventilation system, but before I fired it again I paused to flick on the audio feed from my bug on the Bat Signal.

“See, it’s funny so long as he’s cutting off someone else,” said Gordon’s voice in my ear. “God knows how many of my retorts have been made to dead air.”

Less than he’d think, which was most of the point of having a bug on the Bat Signal. Not that it mattered, usually. Over the years Gordon had learned not to leave anything important for the end of our conversations. 

“Absolutely infuriating,” Riddler said. “Who raised him, wolves?”

“The smart money in the department is on actual bats,” Gordon said. Then he paused, possibly remembering who he was talking to. “You need help finding the fire escape, Nashton?”

“Nygma,” Riddler snapped. “I’m going, I’m going. I do have other plans, you know. I was only offering to help the Bat out of magnanimity.” 

“Yes, you’re so famous for your generosity,” Gordon said. “Now get the hell off my roof.” 

I turned the feed off as I landed on a gargoyle overlooking Washington. “Red Robin?” I asked, turning on my communicator. 

“Across from you,” came the response. “One sec.”

I examined the street below as a red and black blur launched itself through the sky. It looked like the two gangs were attempting to negotiate, but based on the body language of the leaders, the diplomatic effort was going poorly.

Tim landed at my side. “Good thing you got here when you did,” he said. “I was just about to forget years of strategic training and jump into the crowd alone in a fit of senseless bloodlust.”

I ignored him, focusing on counting the number of gang members present.

“Oh, wait, no,” he said. “Sorry, I confused myself with Robin Jr. for a second. There’s 17 to the north, 23 to the south.”

“Unmatched?” I asked, abandoning my calculation. Tim was rarely wrong. 

The first shots fired beneath us.

“No,” Tim said, preparing to jump. “North is better armed.”

“Then you start at the south,” I said. “We’ll meet in the middle.” 

I landed behind a distracted gunman. The sounds he made as I choked him into unconsciousness were covered by the racket of gunfire, and I was able to creep behind two more of his companions with the same tactic before a gang member near the middle turned around.

“It’s the Bat!” he screamed, pointing in my direction. The man and woman I was approaching swung around, and their distracted motion gave me the opportunity to knock their heads together.

The gang’s ranks broke into chaos as they tried to decide whether to shoot at me or their rivals. I jumped behind a car as bullets sprayed in my direction. Glancing carefully around the fender, I aimed my grapple at the automatic rifle of one of the men who’d decided to focus on me. 

I fired, then retracted the rope as soon as it hit its target. The gun was yanked out of his hands, and he stumbled forward at the loss. I tossed the gun to the side and grabbed a smoke bomb from my utility belt. 

Activating my cowl’s thermal imaging, I jumped onto the car and threw the bomb into the street. Billowing smoke exploded out at the impact, disorienting those blinded by its fumes. An echoing hissing sound in the distance told me that Tim was using a similar tactic.

I threw a batarang at the hand of one of the gang leaders — when it embedded itself below his knuckles, he dropped his own rifle with a shriek. The same strategy disarmed the man at his side, and I jumped down to the street to address their friends more personally. 

As I was kicking the chin of a particularly tall gang member, a noise from behind me caused me to spin around. I turned just in time to see a man holding a pistol body slammed into the ground by the airborne form of one of his enemies from the other side.

“Strong throw,” I told Tim, who had arrived at my side. “But you’re putting too much weight on your back foot.” 

“Ugh,” he said, elbowing a woman in the back of the head. “I’m blaming ‘Brother Dearest’ for that one. I think he was trying to chop my leg off when we were sparring this morning.” 

I tripped one of the disarmed men as he jumped at me, letting him crash into a man Tim shoved in his direction. “Do you know where Robin’s patrolling tonight? He didn’t specify when he left.”

“He said the East Side,” Tim said as he flipped over a gunman. “But he seemed pretty mad at Nygma last night for taking his seat in the Batmobile.”

“So?” I asked, punting my gang leader into his as Tim landed safely behind them. 

“So there’s at least a fifty percent chance that he’s actually chaining the Riddler to a cement block and tossing him in the harbor,” Tim said. He swung a man headfirst into a telephone pole, then looked around. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Casualties on your side?”

“Two gunshot wounds to the shoulder, one to the gut,” Tim said, opening up his gauntlet to type away. “I’m notifying 911, but if medical assistance arrives quickly enough they should be fine.”

“Good,” I said, carefully examining the street for stragglers. 

“How was brunch?” Tim asked suddenly, and I turned to stare at him. 

“Robin was eavesdropping on your phone call last night,” he admitted. “He told me about it while we were training this morning.”

Figures. Damian’s initial attempt at listening in had been too obvious. I should have known it was a feint to distract from a more efficient strategy of attack.

“Brunch was inconclusive.”

Tim frowned. “So it was... bad?”

“It was inconclusive,” I repeated. “But Robin can relax. I doubt we’ll have another for him to complain about.”

“Eddie didn’t like any of his twelve entrees, huh?” Tim asked absentmindedly.

I turned back to him, narrowing my eyes.

He looked up from his gauntlet to give me an embarrassed grin. “I... may have looked over the charges on your card afterwards.”

“You’re both terrible,” I decided. Sirens blared in the distance, and I aimed my grapple at the top of a nearby building. 

“You took a supervillain to the third nicest restaurant in Gotham!” Tim protested, following my lead. We surged forward, taking our places on the rooftop above. “Not to agree with Robin about something, but I think we’re justified in being curious.” 

That was... fair enough, I supposed. The situation with Riddler was already irregular. Nobody in Gotham had been sure how to take reports of his memory loss, my allies included. My approach might have made more sense within the context of Nygma having discovered my identity, but... well. Tim and Damian didn’t have that.

I’d _meant_ to tell them. I knew I had a bad habit of keeping information to myself, but my identity was directly linked to theirs — directly linked to almost all of my associates, except for Barbara. But I’d been reeling after I uncovered Riddler’s plot with Thomas Elliot. Tommy had been a friend, and his betrayal had struck hard. His hidden hatred and cruelty had made my fraught relationship with Harvey seem like a dream in comparison.

In the wake of _that_ emotional turmoil, discovering that Riddler knew my identity had been... not as concerning. Unwise, maybe. But when I told Edward that a riddle everyone knew the answer to was worthless, I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wouldn’t do anything to make his hard-won prize common knowledge. Besides, he’d seemed genuinely terrified when I threatened to tell Ra’s al Ghul that Riddler had taken a dip in his Lazarus Pit. I’d been bluffing, of course, but when Ra’s was involved, even a bluff was a serious deterrent. 

Then Riddler had dropped off the map, chased up and down Gotham by the various rogues he’d screwed over during his Hush plot (not to mention a murderously vengeful Thomas Elliot). Word on the street had reported him as buried in Ivy’s garden, digesting in the stomachs of Harley and Joker’s hyenas, or even hiding out in Central Park as a homeless grifter — but not as a threat.

Not that I’d been surprised when he eventually re-emerged. The midlife crisis makeover had been a bit of a shock, certainly, but not that Riddler had landed on his feet. His re-emergence had me reluctantly planning a family meeting to address what he knew, but I’d found an excuse to push it off when he ran off to Star City for a grudge match with Green Arrow.

And then, of course, there had been the coma. 

Was this a good time to tell them? I wasn’t sure. If Riddler really had lost his memory of my identity, then it might never be relevant again, in which case I could spare myself the indignity. If he hadn’t, then this entire reformation might be part of a master plan to use my secrets against me and destroy Batman forever. 

I should probably tell them.

“Red—”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, his voice crackling to life over my communicator. “Am I correct in assuming that you and Master Tim have resolved your current activity?” 

“Yup,” Tim chimed in, listening to the same channel. “Worked out okay. Not a lot of opportunities to shoot each other when you’re too busy firing at us.”

“Excellent,” Alfred replied. “In that case, sir, could I persuade you to change into your _other_ formal wear? Miss Vreeland was so hoping that you’d attend her party this evening.” 

“Not tonight, Control,” I said. “I should follow up on Karrie’s case. Lanner disappeared before Gordon could follow up on his alibi.” 

“I understand entirely, sir,” he said. “That would be why I took the time to look over Veronica’s guest list. Several high profile members of Karrie’s uncle’s firm will be attending.” 

“Hmm,” I said, glancing through the list of names Alfred had sent to Tim’s gauntlet. “I should have known you’d find a way to overlap my social life with a murder investigation.”

“You should have,” Alfred said. “I’m certainly not hoping for it to happen again in the future, but I have to admit that your activities are much easier to schedule when crime strikes _in_ your social circle.” 

I sighed. “Patch me into my personal line.”

Alfred gave a short, satisfied hum in victory. “Of course, Master Bruce.” 

I turned off my voice modulator and started dialing as soon as he set up the connection. Three rings later, and a delicate woman’s voice was speaking up from the other end. “Hello?”

“Hey Sofia,” I said. “It’s Bruce. I was wondering— how would you feel about being fashionably late to something tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in which literally nothing is from the comic this is based on. This is because there are only like five pages left in Detective Comics #822, and I am rationing them out like nobody's business. Bruce's internal monologue about why he never told anyone about the whole "Riddler knows my secret identity thing" is entirely based in comics, though. DC wasn't sure what they wanted to do with Riddler after Hush, and they kind of bounced him all over the place as a result, so it really didn't come up that he knew Batman's identity. I was familiar with Hush (and Riddler's post-Hush humiliation conga line), but until doing research for this fic I'd never read Riddler's "comeback" afterwards, before Paul Dini got to do his Detective Riddler thing. It's very bizarre, but to summarize: 
> 
> In Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #185-189, it's revealed that Edward's sense of self has been completely crushed and he's living as a homeless person. A rich, retired professor finds him solving the crossword puzzles in discarded newspapers and decides that Edward is an undiscovered genius he can use to revive his career. The professor finds Ed's records from elementary school (but somehow not the fact that he's a supervillain) and retcons the origin where he cheated at a puzzle at school, his father beat him for it, and Edward developed a compulsion to "prove" his accomplishments (the whole riddle thing). The professor says Edward actually DIDN'T cheat at the puzzle, but his father's beatings traumatized him into seeing himself as a cheater anyway. Later Edward realizes that the professor is taking advantage of him, snaps, and kills him. Then, to reflect his "new" outlook on life, he covers his body in question mark tattoos, adopts an all-black wardrobe, and... gets plastic surgery to look more attractive?
> 
> The rest of the arc is a pretty standard Riddler crime story, but with the twist that Riddler is constantly insisting that he's cool now and is totally over "prancing around like a green jelly bean" (direct quote). Over all it is... kind of embarrassing? DC themselves seemed to realize this immediately after publishing it, because the makeover disappears by Infinite Crisis. Which is great for me, because I'm very fond of the prancing green jelly bean.


	5. Impasta

“Brucie! Oh, thank _God_.” 

I shifted my weight to brace myself for impact as the redheaded socialite tackled me in a hug that would have bowled over a smaller man.

“Hey, Ronnie,” I said, patting her on the back in a way that I hoped was reassuring. My date glanced over at us with vague interest, while Veronica’s glared at me with what seemed to be very genuine vitriol. “I’m happy to see you too. Although— _ow_ — maybe with slightly less bone-crushing enthusiasm?”

Veronica let go of me, though she didn’t look particularly chagrined. “I was _so_ hoping you’d show up, Brucie. This party is a disaster. Oh! Hey... Sonia?”

“Sofia,” my date corrected, smiling generously.

“See!” Veronica said, gesturing at Sofia dramatically. “I can’t even remember the names on my guest list. _That’s_ how stressed I am over this complete garbage fire of a social event.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, Sofia’s my plus one, not from the guest list,” I offered. “And personally, I think this party is going great. I’ve been here for six minutes and I haven’t run into Simon Stagg once, which is always a win in my book.” 

The hostess patted my cheek fondly. “That’s sweet of you to say, Bruce. But you missed Warren and Armand starting a fistfight over the fondue fountain.”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, that’s not ideal.”

“ _And_ everyone’s phones are missing!” Veronica’s date added.

“That’s... definitely odd _._ ”

“Not to mention that there’s a _supervillain_ lurking around somewhere,” Veronica said. “Oh, and Simon _is_ here Bruce, I’m sorry. I tried to shut him in the kitchen, but he could break past the help at any minute.”

“Wait,” I said, having been glancing around the room looking for phone-stealing pickpockets. "What was that?"

“Simon Stagg,” Veronica said. “He was _not_ on the guest list, but you invite that cute daughter of his somewhere and he just shows up like mold. Or cockroaches. Or sixty year old industrialists who don’t understand that they shouldn’t hit on their daughter’s friends.”

“No,” I said, though I made a note to both avoid the kitchen and say hi to Sapphire Stagg if I saw her around. “Before that.”

“Oh,” Veronica said. “Yeah, the Riddler’s here somewhere.”

 _God damn it._ Was this what the Riddler meant by “other plans?” The fact that his idea of a murder investigation overlapped with Alfred’s was somewhat disturbing.

“Oh my God,” Sofia said, raising a hand to her mouth in shock. “Is he holding the party hostage?”

“No,” Veronica’s date said, cocking his head in confusion. “Apparently he’s a superhero now, or... something. I don’t know. They let him out on purpose, I guess?”

“And we’re all _very_ grateful that he cleared you of killing poor Karrie,” Veronica said quickly. “Not that anyone with a brain thought you had!”

“Or that your lawyers would let you get charged with it if you did,” her date added helpfully.

“But he’s _really_ bringing down the mood,” Veronica said. “Everyone keeps waiting for some kind of Jeopardy themed death trap to drop from the ceiling.” 

“Right,” I said. “I can see how that would lead to... unideal party conditions.”

“No kidding,” Veronica sniffed. “Well, I have to go do damage control. Brucie, please do me a favor and flash your ‘I definitely know who you are and I’m very happy to see you’ smile at people until the mood improves, okay?”

“Can do, Ronnie,” I said with a wink and a salute. Veronica gave me a relieved grin before disappearing into the crowd, dragging her date behind her. I turned to see Sofia looking at me expectantly. 

“Um... oh, Sofia!” I said, grabbing the shoulder of a man standing to my left. “Have you ever met Matthew Atkins?”

Matthew turned, confused expression shifting into a wide smile as he saw who’d been standing behind him. “Bruce!” he said, going in for a manly side-hug. “Buddy! So good to see you. I heard the Riddler killed your girlfriend!”

I returned the hug. “That’s not... _exactly_ what happened,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” he said, nodding seriously. “What I actually heard was that the two of you did it together, but I don’t believe that trashy tabloid stuff. Super sorry either way, though. Karrie was cool.”

“...Thanks, Matthew,” I said, then gestured towards my date. “This is Sofia Cappelletti, she’s a dancer with the Gotham Opera Ballet.”

She smiled winningly and offered him her hand. Her eyes widened slightly when he gave it an enthusiastic handshake instead of kissing it. 

“That’s so cool!” he said, letting go of her hand to put his on his hips. “I keep meaning to go see some Shakespeare or something. Get some culture.”

“Sofia, this is Matthew Atkins,” I said. “He’s a consultant at the Gotham Museum of Natural History.”

“Charmed,” she said, sounding somewhat stunned. “You... work at a _museum_?”

“Do I!” Matthew exclaimed, leaning forward. “Oh, we have the _coolest_ exhibition right now about sharks in the early Gilbertese cultures of Kiribati. They had really fun outfits, so I bet there’s a bunch of overlap with being a ballerina...”

Satisfied that Matthew’s tendency to overshare would safely occupy Sofia for the foreseeable future, I slipped past them to scan the crowd. Veronica’s place was pretty busy, but typically Riddler’s custom green question marks would have made him stand out, even in this crowd. I couldn’t see him anywhere, though, which seemed like a bad sign. I did see Sapphire Stagg standing near one of the studio windows, and I was about to head over to check on her when my phone rang in my suit pocket.

I glanced down at the name for the call. Riddler, The.

 _Well, that’s helpful_. I leaned back against the wall of what I knew from experience was a very large janitorial closet, carefully avoiding blocking the door in case any of Veronica’s employees needed to get inside. “Hello?” I said, accepting the call.

“Bruce,” Riddler replied immediately. “Are you still an adequate pack mule?”

“No,” I said. “Unfortunately I’ve lost both of my arms since the last time we saw each other.”

“I see,” Riddler said, sounding annoyed. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very funny, Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they were lying to you because you’re rich,” he said. “This is a matter of utmost importance to solving the _murder_ of Miss Bishop, Mr. Wayne. Or is finding your friend’s killer no longer a priority for you, and you’d rather waste my valuable time with your paltry attempts at humor?”

I sighed. “Yes, I am still capable of carrying things. Where _are_ you, I—”

The closet door beside me cracked open, and an arm shot out to grab my hand. I managed to restrain myself from breaking it when I noticed the green sleeve and purple glove. I allowed it to pull me through the open door, which closed once I was safely inside.

“Excellent,” Riddler said, and shoved an armful of cellphones into my hands. “Hold these.”

I watched, stunned, as he grabbed a single phone from the pile in my arms and held it up to the light. After a few moments of examination, he leaned down to the floor of the closet, which I realized was littered with small Ziploc snack bags. He grabbed one and opened it, pulling out what looked like a wad of gum and pressing it to the bottom of the phone’s screen.

“What are you— you _stole_ all of these?” I exclaimed, glaring at him.

“I _borrowed_ them,” Riddler said, scrolling through something on the phone. “For the investigation.”

“Wow,” I said. “You know, I’m not sure why I didn’t immediately assume that you were the cause of the missing phones when Ronnie mentioned that you were here. I guess I thought it would take longer than 48 hours after your release for you to return to petty thievery.”

“They’re talking about me out there?” Riddler asked, his face perking up even as he remained concentrated on the task at hand. “What are they saying?”

“Well,” I said, watching as Riddler stopped scrolling through the phone and dumped it back in my hands, grabbing another and restarting the whole process. “You definitely still have name recognition. Apparently at least one of your paparazzi friends published an article saying that we killed Karrie Bishop together. And everyone’s waiting for you to unleash a Jeopardy-themed deathtrap.”

“ _Jeopardy_?” Riddler exclaimed, briefly glancing up from his work in annoyance. “Like I’d ever bother imitating Alex Trebek, that talentless hack! What kind of blithering idiot can’t recognize how much his audiences would adore witnessing a mind like mine conquer his worthless gameshow?”

He tossed the phone back at the others with more force than was strictly necessary before grabbing a third. “The kind of blithering idiot that has good lawyers?” I suggested. 

“Hmm,” Riddler said. “Better than these idiots, anyways. Honestly, I don’t even know if the fingerprints were necessary for most of these. I probably could have just typed in one-two-three-four.”

“Sure,” I said, shifting my arms to get a more secure hold on the phones. “But then I would never have witnessed the charming eccentricity of this pile of bagged chewing gum.”

He glanced up at me, then back down at his phone. “Yes, well,” he said, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “I’m on a bit of a budget at the moment.”

 _Whoops._ “So,” I said, changing the subject. “Lawyers, huh? From Sherman Bishop’s firm, I assume.”

“You assume correctly,” Riddler said. “I’m currently looking for— ha!”

“Ha?”

“ _Ha_ ,” he repeated. “There was a card from Bishop Law in Lanner’s apartment. Maybe innocuous, given who he was dating. But the statement Lanner gave to the GCPD was clearly coached by a trained lawyer, even though he hadn’t reached out to any of his family’s usual legal aides.”

“You think he’s in communication with one of Sherman’s lawyers,” I translated.

“It seemed possible,” Riddler said, then turned the phone around to show me. The screen was set to the call history. “There are a _lot_ of calls to and from a ‘Greg’ listed here.”

“Greg, eggplant emoji,” I corrected.

“Yes, it’s all terribly professional,” Riddler said, turning the phone back to himself and tapping at the screen. “Since last night at 10 p.m., there’s also been several calls back and forth with an unknown number.” 

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” I said. 

“Suspicious, but circumstantial,” he said. “What I find most interesting is a call from last week to a phone number that was on the list your butler sent to me this afternoon.”

I raised an eyebrow. “One of the impersonators?”

“I took the liberty of memorizing them,” Riddler said with a smirk, as if it wouldn’t have been more convenient to just compare the lists. 

“Hmm,” I said. “Do you have a name for our lawyer friend?”

“Sarah Morton, Esquire,” Riddler said, turning the phone to display a photo of a woman in her thirties with chestnut brown hair, smiling as she wrapped an arm around Karrie Bishop, pulling the blonde in view of the camera. “There’s a lot of these on here — a friend of Karrie’s, apparently.”

“Apparently,” I said. “Does this mean we can return the stolen phones now?”

“God, you really do have a one track mind,” Riddler huffed. “Yes, we can return the _borrowed_ phones. In fact, I’m quite looking forward to returning Miss Morton’s.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Neither of us moved. 

“You’re going to have to get the door,” I said, gesturing down at the phones with my chin.

“Oh!” Riddler said, looking somewhat flushed. “Right. Yes. Closet door.”

He pulled it open, then immediately backed away from the doorway. 

“You!” came a shout from the other side, immediately followed by a man poking his head into the closet. “Phones!” he shouted again, his eyes falling on the contents of my arms. “I fucking knew it, you little freak. You—” his eyes flicked up to my face. “Oh, shit.”

“Bruce Wayne,” I said, pretending for a moment that ‘oh, shit’ wasn’t drunkese for my name. “I’d shake your hand, but mine are kind of full with all the phones we found in here.”

“Yes,” Riddler said immediately. His tone dropped into an infuriatingly patronizing droll. “Did you lose your phone, Gunther? Lucky you, I may have just recovered it.” 

Gunther did not look amused. “Oh, yeah? What’s all that shit on the ground, then?”

I put on a look of confusion. “What do you— oh my God, Riddler! You’re standing in Ronnie’s gum collection.”

Riddler levelled me with an incredibly judgemental stare. “Whoops,” he said, not even attempting to match my faked enthusiasm. He stepped to the side. “Do apologize to Miss Vreeland for me.”

“Ronnie’s... okay,” Gunther said, shaking his head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Do whatever weird shit you were doing in here, I just want my—”

“Phone?” I guessed, and dumped the pile in his arms. “That’s great. Can you see if anyone else out there lost theirs while you’re at it? I’d really appreciate it.”

Gunther glared at me. I gave him my best “I definitely know who you are and I’m very happy to see you” smile. He muttered and turned around, removing himself from the doorway.

“Huh,” Riddler said once he’d gone. “I really didn’t think that was going to work.”

“I’m Bruce Wayne,” I said by way of explanation, holding the door open and waving him through.

“So I am beginning to see,” he said. I followed him out of the closet, then paused when he stopped and turned around. 

“Um,” Riddler said, eloquently. “I realize that it may have seemed like I was joking the other night, due to the ‘Mr. Nygma, sir’ comment, but I actually would prefer it if you didn’t refer to me by my previous criminal moniker.”

“I— oh,” I said, realizing what he meant. “Right. I... I apologize. Edward.”

“Thank you,” he said, a smile creeping onto his features. Then he cleared his throat. “For gaslighting Gunther. Your apology is... accepted.” 

“Very generous of you,” I said. “Oh, here’s the woman of the hour now.”

Sarah Morton was in the corner talking to Sofia. My date seemed to have lost Matthew in my absence, possibly to an interesting bit of wallpaper or a particularly shiny piece of silverware. 

“So, when you say that he— oh, Mr. Nygma!” Sarah said, exhaustion briefly flashing on her face before she plastered on a fake smile. “Do you have... more questions about your payment?”

“No,” Riddler... _Edward_ said. “Well, yes, actually, but not right now. I just thought I’d bring you the real thing, since I imagine you forked over quite a bit of your own paycheck for an imitation.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“We found your phone in the closet,” I said. I held out my hand to Edward, who handed it to me without protest. Sarah’s hands immediately went to her jacket pockets — when they came out empty, I proffered her what she’d been looking for.

“I—” she started, then paused. “Wait, what were you two doing in the closet together?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, mostly to Sofia, who had stepped back and crossed her arms.

“None of your business!” Edward said at the same time, then glanced over at me with a look of discomfort. He turned back to Sarah with a scowl. “Here’s a better question. What do you call an Italian dish ordered by Bruce Wayne at the Regent Grill last Friday at 7 p.m.?”

“That’s a _better_ question?” Sofia asked incredulously. 

“...An im _pasta_?” I guessed.

“Yes,” he said. “To both of you. Care to comment, Ms. Morton?”

“I..” she said, looking ill. “Oh, God.”

Sofia reached out for Sarah’s shoulder, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sarah said, crossing her arms over her stomach. “No, I’m really not.”

“A guilty conscience, do you think?” Edward asked, learning forward. 

“I suppose you would know,” I said, which Edward chose not to merit with a response. 

“He didn’t do it,” Sarah said, looking up at me pleadingly. “I know he didn’t do it. He wouldn’t.”

“Lanner?” Edward asked eagerly.

“Greg,” she agreed. ”I’m not stupid, I know what it looks like. He can get... passionate, when he’s angry. But he’d never do that to Karrie. He cared about her! _Really_ cared.”

“A fact you weren’t too fond of,” he said, and smirked when Sarah ducked her head. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” she said miserably. “Greg was obsessed with Karrie, but she wanted their relationship to be casual. It... it wasn’t just about Greg,” she said quickly. “They were making each other miserable! I thought they’d both be happier if they just...”

“Broke up,” I finished. She nodded, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. 

“So you hired Derek Lewis to surprise Ms. Bishop at the Regent Grill in celebrity disguise,” Edward said, “You knew Lanner would get jealous when he saw the pictures, and that Karrie wouldn’t deny her willingness to continue seeing Bruce Wayne on the side.”

“I thought if they just saw they weren’t compatible with each other, then...” she dug her nails into the sleeves of her jacket. “Then Greg would be single again.”

There was a pause in the conversation.

“Well,” I said, breaking the silence. “Congratulations.”

Sarah burst into tears.

“Sorry,” I said when Sofia glared at me. “She _did_ use my face in a plan that resulted in murder, though. I feel like I reserve the right to be somewhat frustrated here.”

“He didn’t murder her!” Sarah insisted, dabbing at reddened eyes. “I would _never_ have helped him with his statement if I thought it was even a possibility.”

“Ms. Morton, please,” Edward said. “This is a matter of grave importance. Do you know where Mr. Lanner is?”

“I don’t,” she said, sniffling. “After he went to the GCPD, he called me and told me he’d gone someplace out of the way. We talked a couple more times, but he said I couldn’t come by. He didn’t want to attract any m-media attention.”

“Great,” Edward said, brows furrowing with frustration. “Time to break out the phone book, I guess.”

“Call Gordon,” I told him. “Get the unknown number to Batman. If there’s a location attached to it, he’ll find it.” I glanced around at the group. “...I’ve heard.”

Edward bristled. “I’m quite capable of solving my own case, thank you.”

“A good detective takes advantage of _all_ his resources,” I said. “You’re on a budget. Batman isn’t. Take advantage of that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I take it you know a lot about good detectives, Bruce?”

“Well, the guy who told me that was talking about good businessmen,” I said. “But I assume that advice about business applies to all occupations, always.”

“Hmm,” Edward said. “Fine. I’ll pass the information along to Batman. But if _he_ thinks he can shut me out of my own case...” 

He trailed off, apparently failing to think of an adequately terrifying threat. “He’ll have another thought coming,” he finished, sounding less than satisfied.

“Well _I_ am going to take Ms. Morton home,” Sofia said, glaring at me. Her face softened as she turned to the still distraught woman, leading her away from the crowd. “It’s okay, Sarah, I’m sure Batman will take care of everything...”

“Damn,” I said once she was gone. “That’s another ballerina shot. I don’t think I’ve had a single date with a member of the Gotham Opera Ballet end with her coming home with me.”

I turned to Edward to see him staring at me. “What?” I asked, confused. 

“That was your _date_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of minor references in this one so I won't bother listing them all, but Veronica Vreeland is Bruce's charmingly shallow socialite bff from Batman: The Animated Series, while Matthew Atkins is Bruce's charmingly foolish socialite bff from Detective Comics #828. Veronica is included because I love her, while Matthew is included because my new outline for this story includes Detective Comics #828 so I figured I might as well work him into the story now. So there you go, I am now officially broadcasting my plot points more than Paul Dini ever did.


	6. Holmesian Genius

Overlooking the old brick tenement, it was easy to see why Lanner had seen it as a better way to escape media attention than staying at his ritzy hotel. Normally I wouldn’t believe that someone from his — _our_ — social circles would stay here willingly, but Lanner had already expressed his fondness for slumming it with the “rank and file.”

“Are you planning on brooding up there all night?” A voice asked from the alley below. “Or are we actually going to catch a criminal?”

I dropped down to the grimy street from my perch on the rooftop, then turned to level a glare at him.

“Excellent,” Edward said, brushing off the dirt and dust that had gone airborne at my impact. “I was thinking the fire escape might make an auspicious—”

I pulled out my grapple, then extended my free arm. 

He paled. “Oh, absolutely not. There’s no way I’m lowering myself to... to...”

I stared at him pointedly.

“Fine,” he scowled, walking reluctantly to my side. “But for your sake, this better be a less aggravating experience when the participant is right-side-up and technically consenting.”

I was tempted to fireman’s carry him in response, but feeling like that would be uncharitable, I restrained myself to merely grabbing him under the arms before launching the grapple into the air. To his credit, Edward didn’t do any of the shrieking he normally did when I had him airborne, instead limiting himself to hissing curses under his breath and grabbing my cape in a gloved death grip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he wheezed when his feet were finally back on solid ground, 30 ft above street level. His face was completely flushed as he rescinded his arm from around my shoulder. “I will never comprehend how you can abide doing that seventy plus times every night.” 

“I keep my eyes trained on a single fixed point,” I said, flipping on the infrared vision in my cowl and looking through the window of Lanner’s apartment hideaway. One heat signature. “Prevents vertigo.”

“Oh,” Edward said, straightening his jacket as he got his breath back. “Is that some martial art trick?”

“Ballet,” I said. “Get down.”

Edward ducked immediately. “Why?” he asked, peering up from under the brim of his derby hat.

The window shattered as gunfire rained down in our direction. I pulled Edward forward as the onslaught continued. 

“Ah,” Edward said as we dashed forward. “Looks like Greggy was expecting us.”

“Give it up, Lanner!” I shouted above the cacophony. “There’s no way out!” 

One final gunshot rang out in the night air before silence fell over the rooftops. Edward made for the fire escape, while I shot a grapple into the scaffolding and swung through the already broken window. The remaining glass shattered as I burst through, scattering in an arc across the darkened bedroom. I landed at an angle, ready to twist away from more gunfire.

Then I saw the body sprawled across the bed. 

I moved forward, hand already at the first aid compartment of my utility belt, but I could tell before I reached the figure that it was too late. I switched hands to grab my flashlight instead, leaning backwards to open the window closest to the fire escape.

“Lanner?” Edward asked, climbing through.

“Dead,” I said, examining the body. “One gunshot wound through the mouth.”

“I see,” Edward said, glancing around the room. He extended his cane towards the bedside table, flipping over a piece of paper without making direct contact. “And this, unless I’m very much mistaken, is a suicide note.” 

I looked over the revolver in Lanner’s hand. It appeared to be the same weapon that had fired at us through the window, though I or Gordon would have to check the ballistics to be entirely sure.

“And a confession, too,” Edward said, peering over the paper. “What do you know? He really did sneak out to shoot Karrie, pretty much the way I described.” 

He pulled out his phone, then hesitated. “Er. My contact for the case was supposed to be Ms. Morton,” Edward said. “In light of her emotional attachment to Gregory Lanner, do you think I’d get paid faster if I went around her, or...?”

I glanced up from the body, leveling him with a glare.

“Right,” he said, turning back to his phone. “What am I thinking, asking a flying rodent for input on social tact.” He unlocked his cell with what appeared to be a very long, very complicated passcode, then tapped the screen a few times before bringing it up to his ear. “She’s a professional, I’m sure she’ll deal with it. Sarah, hello!”

Rising back up to my full height, I glanced around at the rest of the room. Lanner’s shoes were laying on the floor next to the bed, next to a suitcase full of items that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Pandora’s Box. Manacles, a leather mask, one lengthy silver chain. A pair of handcuffs was hung over the bedknob. The rest of his suitcases, presumably containing Lanner’s clothes, were stacked neatly in the opposite corner. 

“Sorry to wake you,” Edward said into his phone, lowering himself casually into a nearby armchair. “...Oh. Yes, I suppose it makes sense that you couldn’t sleep. Well, don’t let your boss know, I’m sure he’ll be needing his right-hand girl at her peak.”

I walked over to examine the bathroom when I noticed that the apartment door was open. 

_Interesting._

“Speaking of,” Edward said, “You may want to rouse the old boy. I’ve found our killer— what’s left of him, anyway.”

Morton’s reaction to his phrasing must not have been positive, based on the exhausted glower that overtook his expression. As he attempted to verbally backspace, I took the opportunity to slip into the hallway.

There were a few other tenants in the hall, roused out of bed by either the gunshots or the sound of a large man crashing through a window. When I emerged from Lanner’s room they returned to their own apartments; some nervous of my attention, others satisfied that the problem was in hand. A woman in the uniform of a waitress pulled a headphone out of her ear as she passed me, hiking a purse over her shoulder as she walked towards the stairway.

“New guy?” she asked.

“Dead,” I said. “You see anyone leave his apartment?” 

“Nah,” she said. “Five minute rule. Didn’t want to open my door until I was sure the shooting was done. I might miss my bus now, actually. Is this going to be a crime scene when I get home?”

“Probably.”

“Fuck,” she said, putting her earbud back in. “Well, good luck with the dead guy.”

“Good luck with your bus,” I said. She waved over her shoulder as she walked down to the stairwell. It was, I noted, very close to the door of Lanner’s apartment. I followed her, though skipped the stairs by jumping over the guardrail and landing at the bottom of the stairwell. I pushed open a door under a flickering exit sign, stepping out onto the street.

It was bustling, which was unfortunate but expected. This was Gotham after all; the streets were busier at three at night than they were at three in the afternoon. I got some stares as I exited the building, which increased in intensity as I started looking inside of all the trash cans on this side of the block. 

I was as thorough as possible, though the contents of Gotham trash cans were about 70% suspicious items as a rule, so determining what (if anything) was related to this specific crime was difficult to say the least. By the end of my search I’d settled on two handguns, a new but slightly blood stained silk scarf, and a magazine cut letter threatening to reveal my “dark secret” as the most likely to be related to my current case. I also pocketed a mason jar full of teeth, since though I doubted it was relevant, it seemed like the kind of thing that would probably end up on my radar sooner or later.

I dropped the rest of the items in a plastic evidence bag from my utility belt, then summoned the Batmobile. Edward would presumably get around to calling the police once he had his guarantee of payment, and I still had a few hours of patrol before the sun came up. 

. . .

“Karrie, _no_!”

I watched the screen of the Batcomputer as the laughing blonde woman launched a tennis ball into the camera. Veronica Vreeland and her boyfriend of the week ran over to offer apologies to the paparazzo who Karrie had spotted in the bushes. The cracked camera lens observed from the ground as Bruce Wayne — the real one, on this particular occasion — walked over, pulling out his wallet and dropping some bills at the cameraman’s feet. 

“For the camera,” he said, giving the audience a smile that said both ‘I’m being very friendly’ and ‘get the hell off my property.’ Karrie snorted beside him, jumping up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek before making a “shoo” gesture in the direction of the cameraman.

I paused the footage, hearing Alfred come up behind me.

“Oh, Ms. Bishop,” Alfred said with a sigh. “Before being notified of her passing, I never would have imagined I could miss cleaning up after tennis balls that had found their way through the manor windows.”

“When I talked to Lanner, he seemed convinced that Karrie wanted her relationship with Bruce Wayne to be exclusive,” I said. 

“And he was such a reasonable man,” Alfred said, “so it would be very wise of you to take his input at face value.”

“I’m serious,” I said, turning in my chair to face him. “What if she had genuine feelings for me, Alfred? Did I just ignore them, because they were inconvenient to me? Because I didn’t _want_ to see them?”

“...This is about Karrie Bishop?” Alfred asked, frowning.

I glanced over my shoulder at the screen behind me. “Obviously.”

Alfred sighed, folding his arms behind his back. “Right. Well, I’m not going to lie to you, Master Bruce. You do have an overwhelming tendency to live in denial of inconvenient emotional truths for the sake of practicality.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“But I need you to understand that whatever Karrie’s feelings are — were — she _chose_ not to share them with you,” Alfred said. “If she had felt that way towards you, it would have been unrequited, yes?”

“...Yes,” I said, eventually. 

“Then I can’t imagine she would have wanted you to confront her over it,” Alfred said. “Nor do I see why she would have appreciated you speculatively dissecting her emotional attachments now. Whatever her true feelings, what Karrie Bishop offered you was her friendship. If you feel the need to repay something, repay that.”

“Hmm,” I said, turning back to the screen. “You may have a point. Thanks, Alfred.”

“Of course,” he said, turning away. Then he paused. “But to be serious, sir. In reference to Ms. Bishop? She thought you an enjoyable tennis date. That was the extent of her romantic feelings for you. Please do not spend hours in which you could be sleeping brooding over this.”

“I’m not brooding,” I protested, then switched gears when I saw Alfred’s skeptical expression. “And I was about to go to bed anyway. Really.”

“Mmm,” Alfred said, resuming his path towards the elevator. 

Knowing there’d be hell to pay if he caught me lying to him, I got up to remove what elements of the batsuit I hadn’t yet taken off. As I placed them in their proper case, my phone rang from the console of the Batcomputer. I ignored it in favor of pulling on a black flannel robe.

“Hello Bruce, this is Edward,” a voice crackled over the answering machine. “Nygma. I was just calling to let you know that if you weren’t getting pinned with Karrie’s murder before, you _definitely_ aren’t now. You’re welcome, by the way. I’m going home to get some shut-eye, but I was wondering if—”

I sighed, jogging over to grab the phone. “Hello, Edward.”

There was a surprised noise from the other end of the line. “Oh! Bruce. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I would catch you. Aren’t you normally asleep at 8 a.m.?”

“It’s _8 a.m._?” I echoed without thinking. _Damn._ That would explain why Alfred was up. And why I was tired enough to echo people without thinking.

“Ah,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I take it you managed to make up with your ballerina friend, then.” 

Right, that would probably be a good reason for Bruce Wayne to be awake before noon.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” I said. “One sec.”

I held the phone against my shoulder. “Hey, are any of you ladies Sofia?” I asked, loud enough to be picked up by the microphone but quiet enough so as not to disturb the bats that had recently returned to sleep after their nighttime activities. 

I raised the phone back to my ear. “Nope, I guess not. That makes sense, she was pretty pissed at me over the whole Sarah thing. Hey, you were saying something about the case, right? Anything that would help me smooth that over?”

“I... what?” Edward asked. “Oh. Right. No, presumably not. The killer was Lanner. He admitted it in his suicide note.”

“Oh, shit,” I said. “Yeah, that’s like the opposite of smoothing things over. How did Sarah take it?”

“Very unprofessionally,” Edward said, sounding annoyed. “But she did eventually manage to connect me to Sherman Bishop, who in turn managed to connect me to his promised payment. Which leads me to what I was wondering when I called you.”

“Shoot,” I said, making my way to the elevator.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

I frowned. “Did we get disconnected?” I asked. That used to happen with relative frequency when traveling between the scrambling technology of the Batcave and the open WiFi of Wayne Manor, but Tim had gotten frustrated enough with it to fix the problem years ago. 

“No,” Edward said quickly. “No, I just wanted to say that it was... entertaining, having you as an assistant underling in my investigation tonight.”

My brow furrowed. Was this his roundabout way of thanking Batman for pushing him out of the way of gunfire? Or did he just want Bruce Wayne to hold another armful of phones? 

“What, you mean as a pack mule?” I asked. “Look, I don’t care how much Sherman paid you, I’m not for hire. That was a one time thing.” I thought back to the previous afternoon. “A two time thing.”

“ _Not_ as a pack mule,” Edward said, then paused. “Well, not entirely as a pack mule. I meant that it was somewhat enjoyable, having an air headed Watson to witness my Holmesian genius.”

“Wow,” I said, stepping out of the elevator and into my father’s old study. “Thanks. You couldn’t afford to keep me on in _that_ position either, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“ _That’s_ not _what I was_ — ugh,” he groaned. “I think you might be misunderstanding me.”

“I hope so,” I said, tying my robe tighter as I exited the study. “Because I really didn’t answer the phone hoping for a job interview. Especially since I’m not looking for a job right now.”

“I’m not offering you a job,” Edward said, radiating frustration through the speaker. “I’m _offering_ to buy you brunch.” 

I blinked, stopping where I stood in the hallway. “What?”

“A portmanteau of breakfast and lunch, usually served any time before three o’clock in the afternoon,” Edward explained impatiently. “Regularly accompanied with alcoholic beverages. We had it yesterday.”

“Yeah, I have some lingering familiarity with the concept,” I said. “I meant why would _you_ buy _me_ brunch?”

“Because you bought it last time, and I don’t like having unreturned favors hanging over my head,” Edward said. “And because, if you were listening, I just got paid.”

“How is that a reason?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure I still have more money than you.”

“Because I got _paid_ ,” Edward repeated, his euphoria over the experience creeping into his voice.

“Ah,” I said. “Well, now that you’ve said it twice, I completely understand.”

“That sounds adjacent to a yes,” Edward said. “So... yes? Tomorrow? Same time?”

“Oh,” I said, resuming walking. “No, I—”

“Right,” Edward said immediately. “Well, enjoy your guests Mr. Wayne. Good—”

“— _Am busy at that time_ ,” I finished. “God. My schedule is booked until four. Do you let your criminal friends finish _their_ sentences?”

“No, not usually,” he said, though his voice was tinged with something approaching relief. “A late lunch, then?”

“Sure,” I said, entering the master bedroom. “I’m always looking out for where my next five meals are coming from. Send the details to my butler. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go pass out.”

Edward laughed — a short, unexpected sound — then cleared his throat. “I do not,” he said, amusement still present in his tone. “Good morning, Bruce.”

He hung up. I dropped the phone on the bedside table, then flopped on top of the comforter. Somewhere in the process of debating whether or not it was worth it to get up and climb under the sheets, I drifted out of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a return to at least one thing that actually happened in Detective Comics #822. I was able to take FOUR sentences from the actual issue verbatim, which is the most I've been able to do since the second chapter. That being said, I did change the scene in Lanner's apartment to make Edward look less stupid, which outside of the whole gay romance thing is honestly the motivation between the vast majority of the edits I've made to this issue's plot. I get that Batman has to be a better detective than Riddler, since he's the "World's Greatest" and he's LITERALLY the star of Detective Comics, but man do the P.I. Riddler issues in this run really portray Edward as wildly incompetent in comparison to Bruce. He's not stupid, Paul! He's just really annoying.


	7. Hot and Sour

I’d never been very fond of airports. There were always too many people drinking too early in the morning, and the post-9/11 security made it a huge hassle to sneak weapons onto planes. Unfortunately that didn’t stop me from having to visit them with relative frequency.

“I’m... glad to hear that, Mr. Nygma,” Sarah Moton said, leaning back against the waiting bench. “Mr. Bishop certainly thinks you're the hero of the day. He’s very grateful.”

Sitting behind her, I could just barely hear the sound of Edward’s voice over her Bluetooth headset. 

“A tour?” she said, frowning slightly. “Oh, sure. Can’t wait. I’m sorry, I have to go catch my plane. I’m sure I’ll see you when I’m back from L.A. Yes. Well. Goodbye!”

She reached up to turn off her headset. As she did, her arm brushed against my shoulder. 

“God!” she said, jolting to her feet. Her face flushed when she turned to see me. “Oh, Mr. Wayne! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you sit down.”

“I get that a lot,” I said. “L.A.?”

She nodded, returning to her seat. “Business. You?”

“Meeting someone,” I said. “Pleasure.”

She frowned again, deeper, turning away. “I’m... glad you were able to move on so quickly.”

“Karrie and I hadn’t dated in a while,” I corrected. “But historically that would be accurate. I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.” 

“Yeah, well,” Sarah said, crossing her arms. “It’s hard to mourn a guy properly when he confesses to your friend’s murder in his suicide note.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “If it makes you feel any better, though, that’s only one version of the story.”

She paused, glancing back at me. “Riddler didn’t give me the impression there was more than one.”

“Sure there is,” I said, standing up to walk to her side of the bench. I sat down, resting my arms on the backrest. “You murdered Karrie Bishop and Gregory Lanner.”

“I— _what_?” she asked, horrified. “How could you even _say_ that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, tilting my head. “How could you loot Karrie’s trust fund while temporarily assuming the legal responsibilities of her grieving uncle?”

“ _What_?” she said again, backing away from me. “You can’t just... you can’t just _accuse_ someone of something like that without proof!”

“Oh, I’m sure it will take them a while to uncover everything you did,” I said. I was careful not to let any admiration show in my voice. Sarah Morton was a terrible person, but she was _very_ good at accounting. “By the time your crime was uncovered, you would have fled the country with fifty million dollars already transferred to an offshore account.”

Sarah stared at me, then pressed a hand to her forehead. “This is unbelievable,” she said. “Look, Mr. Wayne, I’m _really_ sorry that I got you involved in Greg and Karrie’s... that I got you involved with what happened. But you can’t—”

“You knew Lanner was a violent, temperamental drunk,” I interrupted. “He knew it too. It’s why getting him angry enough to yell at Karrie in public was key. It made him a credible suspect. It’s also why it wasn’t difficult to convince him to stay out of the limelight for a few days after giving his statement — hide out somewhere he couldn’t lash out at the paparazzi. And then, once enough of your _mystery_ had been solved, you dropped by his rental to help him... ‘relax.’” 

She turned away. “That’s disgusting.” 

“You used your scarf as a blindfold,” I guessed. “To add a touch of excitement for Lanner, I’m sure. But also so he couldn’t see what you were going to do. Lanner was already dead by the time Batman and Riddler got there. You staged the gunfight and the suicide to complete the illusion of a desperate man who ran out of options.”

She glared at me. “Karrie Bishop was my _best friend_ ,” she hissed. “Why would I—”

Her mouth snapped shut as I leaned over her. “Karrie Bishop was your _quarry_ ,” I snarled. “You studied her like a hunter after a trophy. You found out she liked the rough nightlife and introduced her to Lanner. He was perfect. You knew a photo of Karrie with me would play to his fears, even if she insisted it wasn’t me in the picture. When he went to Pandora’s Box to cool off, you slipped out through one of the tunnels to go shoot Karrie in her apartment.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” she said, standing up. I grabbed her arm, gently but firmly rooting her in place.

“Please,” I said. “Sit.” She obeyed, her face frozen in fear and anger. 

“You know, it was a brilliant idea to convince Bishop to hire Riddler as a consultant,” I said. “Bishop Law has a number of clients on Arkham’s board. I’m sure you’d heard from your associates that he wanted out of his previous criminal lifestyle. I assume you also heard that he was suffering from near-constant migraines?”

Sarah bristled. “Arkham gave him a clean bill of health,” she said. “If he wasn’t mentally fit, they wouldn’t have cleared him.”

“Right, _that_ sounds like Arkham,” I scoffed before continuing. “Given that you’re an intelligent woman, I’m guessing you were able to intuit that losing his memories and spending the better part of a year in a coma stripped him of any resources he had on the outside. Your detective would be functioning at partial capacity, in serious need of a fast paycheck, and desperate for a chance to improve his reputation. Best of all, his involvement created a media circus that obscured a lot of details.” 

I paused. “Well. Until now, anyway.”

Her eyes flickered from me to one of the fire exits. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother running,” I said. “It’s undignified, and at this point the police are probably entering the airport anyway. I just wanted a chance to chat first.”

“How?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Sherman Bishop isn’t the only one who can hire detectives,” I said. “Karrie was a friend of mine. I would have been motivated to help the police solve her murder no matter how it happened. But employing _my_ likeness to help you get away with it?”

I stood up, zipping up my hooded jacket. “Well,” I said. “That certainly got my attention.”

“You...” she trailed off, watching as several police officers entered the terminal. 

“This conversation never happened, of course,” I said. “I don’t need anything as tasteless as crime solving blocking up my usual press. The police received a tip-off from an anonymous source. You could tell people otherwise, obviously. But you seem like a woman who’s intelligent enough to learn from her mistakes. So I’m guessing you won’t drag me into your affairs again.”

Sarah didn’t say anything, her stunned stare turning back and forth between me and the approaching police. 

“Goodbye, Ms. Morton,” I said, pulling up my hood. “For your sake, I hope I won’t be seeing you.”

I slipped away into the crowd. It was decidedly easier to disappear in public spaces when one wasn’t wearing a bat costume. I made my way onto one of the escalators, dialing Edward as I watched Sarah’s arrest from above. 

“I was wondering when you were going to call,” he said when he picked up. “Given that you fell asleep before we established a location last night.”

“That would be what I just realized,” I said. “Did you have anywhere specific in mind? I can pick you up again. I assume that, post-payment, your residency is no longer the Gotham Public Library.”

“You would assume correctly,” Edward said cheerfully. “I won’t require a ride. Meet me at 111 North Wabash Avenue. Seventh floor.”

111 North Wabash. Wasn’t that an office building? 

“What restaurant is in the Garland building?” I asked.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said, with the air of someone being very generous unnecessarily. “I’d neither a guest nor a trespasser be. In this place I belong, that belongs also to me.”

I frowned. “You’re living in a restaurant?” 

There was a sigh from the other end of the line. “4:30, Mr. Wayne.” Then he hung up.

. . . . 

“You’re not living in a restaurant,” I concluded.

“Brilliant deduction, Watson,” Edward said. He pushed the door open farther, evidently satisfied that by now I had noticed the fancy gold lettering declaring _E. Nygma, Consulting Detective._ “Welcome to my new center of operations. Courtesy of one Sherman Bishop.”

I entered, glancing around. The room was _very_ large, and several doors to the right indicated the office had even more space than that. It was mostly bare of furnishing, with a few exceptions. There were two potted plants by the door — plastic, which was always a smart precaution in his circles. One wall bore what was possibly the ugliest painting I’d ever seen, a mess of purple and green slapdashed onto an olive canvas. There was also a large, half-circle desk placed in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that composed the far wall. A large, imposing chair sat behind it, while a significantly smaller but still comfortable looking chair sat in front. 

“I’ve recently been accused of moving on quickly,” I said. “But I think you might have me beat.”

He grinned. “I’ve had my eye on this place since I left Arkham,” he said. “I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

Edward paused, glancing back at me. “Money, I mean. Not...”

“I figured,” I said, though the thought of some poor real estate agent being thrown into a riddle-themed death trap had definitely crossed my mind. 

“Right,” he said, looking pleased. He led me over to the desk, which was looking decidedly more cluttered than the rest of the office. On one side there was a sleek desktop computer, which looked so new it could have left the factory hours ago. On the other was a phone, which looked so obnoxiously old-fashioned it could have been stolen from the Gotham Museum of History. The rest of the wooden surface was covered in packages of what looked like takeout. 

“You ordered... Chinese?” I asked, staring at the cartons in disbelief. 

“From Doc’s place,” he said, pulling an unopened package of green ceramic bowls out of a plastic bag sitting at the edge of the desk. “The best in Gotham, I assure you. Harley introduced me to the location a few years ago.”

I sincerely doubted “Doc’s Place” was the proper name of the establishment, but I made a note to look around the city for any Chinese restaurants run by a “Doc.”

Edward grabbed a fork from a box of silverware, poking open the plastic covering the bowls with the sharp tines. When he’d unwrapped one, he held it out to me. “Here.”

I took it, but eyed the cartons dubiously. I had nothing against the cuisine — some of the best meals I’d ever had were eaten during my time in the Henan Province of China. One of the only recipes Alfred considered me adequate at preparing was luoyang yan cai, a radish soup that I’d learned how to make when the monks I was studying with put me on cooking duty. I still made it every once in a while, on Father’s Day or on occasions when he was too tired for me to let him cook for me or the kids. Though he often expended so much energy hovering over my shoulder while I trespassed in his kitchen that the point was probably moot. 

American Chinese food, however, tended to be so high in sodium and cholesterol that even a single meal could wreak havoc on the insanely delicate dietary balance that allowed Batman to exist. It was a little disillusioning that Gotham’s protector could be thrown off his game by breaded chicken, but we couldn’t all be Clark Kent. 

Edward sighed in annoyance, apparently noticing my hesitation. 

“Egg foo young,” he said, pointing at one of the containers. “Grilled instead of fried, sauce on the side.” He gestured to several others in quick succession. “Hot and sour soup, no lo mein toppings. Moo goo gai pan, sauce again on the side. Vegetarian spring rolls. Again, unfried. Take your pick. Each should fit within that quaint little diet of yours.”

I opened the carton he’d indicated as moo goo gai pan. Its contents did, in fact, smell like something I could eat without having to detox for a week. I glanced up at him, approving. “You haven’t been talking to my nutritionist, have you?”

“I have not,” he said. He poured a box of noodles into his own bowl, grabbing several dumplings before he sat down in the larger chair behind the desk. “Though I assume that if I wanted to, it would be as simple as calling your butler.”

I grabbed a second bowl for the soup, then filled the first with a serving of each of the other three options. Normally I’d be more cautious in eating food prepared by a supervillain, but all my instincts were telling me the food was untampered with. Besides, I’d noticed Damian stalking me on the drive over, so if Nygma _had_ drugged the spring rolls, he’d be quickly regretting it. 

“This is almost what I would have ordered,” I admitted, sitting down across from Edward. I took a bite. Not bad. “Or what my butler would have ordered for me, which is arguably more impressive.”

Edward smirked. “I told you I did my research,” he said. “Although I did have the added benefit of watching you order the other day. Oh, speaking of.”

He reached down below the desk, then rose back up to throw me a plastic water bottle. I caught it in one hand, watching as he opened a drawer to pull himself out a whiskey glass and a bottle of scotch. 

I uncapped the water, taking a sip. “I can’t tell if this is supposed to be a slight or a courtesy,” I said.

“It can be both,” he replied between mouthfuls. “So. What do you think of the office?”

I nodded, swallowing before speaking. “It’s nice,” I said. “Larger than mine. The one at Wayne Enterprises, anyway. Do I get a tour when we’re done eating?” 

Edward shook his head. “This is really all there is to see, at the moment,” he explained. “There’s a thus far unequipped kitchenette, and a break room with a pull-out couch.” He paused. “Which... I suppose I _could_ show you, if you wanted.”

“I’ll settle for appreciating the view,” I said. He flushed, then followed my gaze to the wall-to-wall windows behind him. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, turning his chair to look at the city skyline. “From what I recall, a significant number of my previous bases have been underground, so this is a nice change of pace.”

That wasn’t universally true. Riddler had holed up in an old observatory once. It had been the answer to a riddle about what visits by night without being called, and leaves by day without being dismissed. I wondered if he remembered that night or not. If I stuck around until the stars were visible through the glass plane, I might witness the memory resurface in person. 

“Is that why you wanted to eat here?” I asked. “Enjoying the new locale too much to wander further downtown?”

“Partially,” he admitted, refilling his bowl with more dumplings. “Although I also assumed that ordering takeout ahead of time would be the only way to stop you from stealing the check.”

“I’m _very_ good at stealing checks,” I agreed. “Although in the past, people have had success—”

I was interrupted by the phone ringing. Nygma glanced at me apologetically, though whatever sympathy was present was undermined by his obvious excitement.

“I’ve been getting calls from new clients all day,” he said. “A moment, if you don’t mind.”

He didn’t wait for me to respond with whether I minded or not before he picked up the phone. “Edward Nygma, consulting detect— oh, Sherman!” he said. His voice was cheerful, but his eyes betrayed significant disappointment that he was talking to someone whose money he had already finished taking. 

Disappointment turned to outright annoyance as Sherman Bishop continued to speak. The man’s voice was raised; I could hear it even from the other side of the desk. 

“Look—” Edward started, then scowled when he was cut off. “ _Look_ , Bishop. Based on the evidence at hand, my findings were...”

He stood up suddenly, his anger launching him to his feet. “Do _NOT_ yell at me!” he shouted, glaring into the receiver. “It was _your_ employee who— FINE! So take your money back!” 

His hand was gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles were white. “This case has already put me on the map!” he seethed. “I’ve got a _slew_ of high-paying clients waiting, and the last thing I need is— hello?” He slammed the handset back down onto the base, evidently not having gotten a response. 

It occurred to me that it might have been considered rude to have finished solving the case without alerting Edward to my findings. 

“I cannot believe he hung up on me,” Edward said, sitting down. He sounded almost as stunned as he was furious. “A year ago I would have killed him for that.”

“Good thing this isn’t a year ago, then,” I said. 

He didn’t respond, just stared out the window. Thinking.

“...Edward,” I tried again. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t figure it out,” he said, pressing a hand to his temple. “All the pieces were accounted for. Then out of nowhere, Gordon decided to play a hunch and...”

He turned to look at me.

“Gordon,” he repeated, then laughed. It was a short, angry sound that instantly had me tensing for a fight. “Oh, Eddie. You _idiot_.”

That seemed dangerous.

“Idiot’s a strong word,” I said cautiously. “You were instrumental in solving the majority of the case.”

“Tell that to Sherman Bishop,” Edward spat, resting his chin in his hand. “I _needed_ that paycheck.”

“How much was it?”

“It was—” Edward paused, staring at me incredulously. “You’re suggesting YOU would pay me?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said, shrugging. “Karrie was my friend. And you did acquit me, after all.”

Edward scoffed. “Oh, gratitude, of course.” He glared at me, gaze dismissive. “I’m sure it’s not at all out of suspicion that I’ll turn back to crime as soon as things don’t go my way.”

That was exactly what it was, so I didn’t say anything. Protesting would presumably only insult him more. 

He looked away, standing up to resume his stare out the window. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, Wayne. I don’t need charity from a control freak who had the world handed to him on a silver platter.”

‘Control freak’ seemed a little hypocritical as an insult, though I doubted now was the time to bring that up. 

“Believe me, I’m aware,” I said. I put down my bowl, rising to walk over to the window. “You’re more than capable of making it without turning to crime. You always have been.”

He looked over at me, then away. It wasn’t flattery, per se: Edward Nygma was a genuinely intelligent man. It was what made his obsession with elaborate, attention-garnering crimes so frustrating. 

“But,” I continued, and I could feel him roll his eyes even though he wasn’t looking in my direction. “Unlike the doctors at Arkham, I am not under the impression that being hit in the head with a mace can magically remove the compulsions and personality traits that led you to becoming the Riddler in the first place.”

“That’s considerably less technical than the language they used in my release papers,” Edward said, but didn’t argue any further. 

“So yes,” I said, turning to face him fully. “If replacing Bishop’s paycheck makes you more likely to stick with this reform? I will pay that. Not because I pity you, Edward, or think you’re somehow incapable of making it outside of crime. But because eleven months ago I didn’t think you would ever be willing to try.”

Edward didn’t say anything for a moment, glancing intermittently between me and the Gotham skyline. 

“I do,” he said eventually. “Want to try, I mean. But...” he grimaced, like speaking was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re right. It’s hard. I _knew_ it would be difficult, of course, I just...”

He sighed. “I know, objectively, that being Riddler was self-destructive.”

“But you miss it.”

“It’s probably a terrible idea to tell _you_ that, but... yes,” he said. “I miss parts of it. A lot of it, even.” He chuckled humorlessly. “God, I _really_ shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“No,” I said, leaning backwards to sit on the edge of the desk. “I get it.”

“ _You_ get it?” he echoed, incredulous. “Please. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Feeling addicted to self-destruction?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “I have some lingering familiarity with the concept.”

Edward stared at me for a moment, eyes as calculating as ever. “You really are a puzzle, aren’t you?” 

If I had a quarter for every time someone had told me that... well, it would make virtually no noticeable difference to my existing accumulation of wealth. I’d have a lot of pocket change, though.

“I’d apologize, but I’ve heard you like puzzles,” I said instead. 

“I do.”

I realized we were standing a lot closer together than we were a few minutes ago. Edward seemed to realize this at the same time. He looked away, taking a very purposefully casual step backwards.

“I don’t need your money, Bruce,” he said after a pause. “But I appreciate the offer.” 

I stood up, walking back to the other side of the table. “Well, let me know,” I said. “I could always just buy the building if you need a break from rent for a few months.”

“That’s... generous,” he said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Not really,” I said. “I might already own it through a subsidiary. I didn’t have time to check on the way over.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” he said. He frowned as he watched me grab my jacket from the back of my chair. “I take it the mood for the meal has been sufficiently dampered?”

“I have an evening appointment,” I explained. “And I have a feeling that my youngest is going to want to yell at me for a while before I get there.” 

The look on Edward’s face made it clear he was only barely managing not to pry. Instead he grabbed an egg roll out of one of the boxes, chewing on it contemplatively. “Well,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing to-go containers.” 

I glanced down at the remainder of Edward’s selections for me. “Do you have a fridge?”

“I’ll be replacing it with a better one,” Edward said, then glanced down at his phone. “...Eventually. But yes.”

“Keep it in there, then,” I said, shrugging on my jacket. “I’ll finish it off when you have time to give me the full tour.” I paused. “I mean, assuming you’re willing to have me back.”

“I’ll decide as soon as I check whether you’re my landlord or not,” he said.

I stared at him blankly. 

“Yes,” he clarified, rolling his eyes. “I’ll keep the food in the fridge. But my schedule is about to become _very_ busy, so you’ll have to be flexible.”

“Oh, no worries,” I said, heading towards the door. “I’m _very_ flexible. That’s what all my dates tell me, anyway.”

I could still hear Edward choking on his egg roll as the door closed behind me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the reason why it's been over a full month since I updated this fic (other than my obsession with scarecrow/batman that started around Halloween) is because originally this was going to be a DAMIAN POV CHAPTER. The idea was to show where Edward had been living since getting out of Arkham (nowhere nice) and a bit of what he'd been doing behind the scenes (shenanigans) but after several weeks of writing one sentence every few days I decided to cut to the chase and get back to what I actually enjoy writing: endless dialogue. But do know that in every chapter post the one where Edward sat in Damian's seat in the Batmobile, there is a 50% chance at any given time that Damian is actually there stalking him from the shadows and waiting for him to do something incriminating. 
> 
> This also marks the end of Detective Comics #822. When I first came up with the idea for this fic it was going to end here, which is why I extended out the plot of the issue for so long. But by like the second chapter I realized there was no way these two would actually be emotionally capable of making out in Edward's office at this point. So we're taking a detour through a few other issues of Detective Comics, because at this point my outline is more like a "Paul Dini's greatest hits" compilation than "Detective Comics #822 but it's gay."


	8. Old Friends

“This has NOT been an easy year for me, you know,” Penguin said, taking a long drag from his opera length cigarette holder. The handle was solid gold, embossed with shining black and white jewels. Which seemed a bit much, even for him.

“I’m aware,” I said.

“Run out of Gotham, all my local holdings seized— thank you, Doris my dear.” He paused mid-rant to smile graciously at one of his hostesses, taking an oyster from the tray she held out to him. Her themed uniform was dangerously approaching a sexy penguin costume, which would have disturbed me more if it didn’t still manage to be one of the more dignified outfits I’d seen on an employee at a Gotham nightclub. 

Penguin started to slurp at the oyster, then paused. “Ah. Would you mind fetching me horseradish, Doris?”

“Of course, Mr. Cobblepot,” she said with a nod. She headed off to the kitchen with a wink in my direction.

“Such a nice girl,” Penguin said when she was gone. “Used to work for Wesker before he passed, did you know? The poor devil.”

The Ventriloquist’s gang had broken apart a while before he finally met his demise, but I understood that most of his former colleagues preferred to talk about him as if he’d died at his prime. Professional courtesy, perhaps. Or maybe just denial, out of fear that they might go out the same way. 

“She looked familiar,” I said.

“That dreadful assassin was terribly disruptive,” Penguin said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Fortunately, the Penguin is a wise old bird — never one to put all his eggs in one basket.” 

Oswald had certainly proven himself to be flexible. Technically he’d “reformed” several years ago, though somehow leaving crime behind had never managed to weaken his grip over Gotham’s criminal underworld. His example was part of what concerned me so much with Edward. Riddler and Penguin had always been close; as close as rival criminals could be, anyway. It seemed entirely possible that Edward was merely following his friend’s example.

“God knows what you’ve been doing here in Gotham, but _I_ took some time off to myself,” Penguin continued. “Visited old friends, collected a few debts. Fifty thousand here, half a million there. You’d be surprised how it all adds up.”

I almost certainly would not. Smaller gangs all over Gotham had been shaken up for cash over the last month, cases of death threats and blackmail that were difficult to follow when no one involved was willing to report the crime to the authorities. But based on what Penguin was telling me — ambiguously, in a way no court would accept — I’d followed the trail to the right place regardless.

“Now, I’m back and ready to pick up where I left off,” Penguin said. He pulled a chunk of oyster meat out of the shell, then tossed it over the railing into the pool at the center of the Iceberg Lounge. His pet leopard seals jumped at the offering, sharp toothed mouths snapping and slavering at the indication of a treat. Penguin chuckled at their display like they were baby chicks playing in a brooder. 

“Personally, Batman,” he said, glancing up to where I’d been shackled spread-eagle above them. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

He pressed a button on a remote sitting on the tablecloth. The manacles released, dropping me into the throng of riled predators. As soon as my right arm was unshackled, I threw the silver pellet I’d been gripping in my fist into the pool below. It exploded into a thick grey steam on contact with the water, and the frenzy of the seals slowed to a stop. I pulled out my grapple before I could hit the water’s surface, firing a shot into the ceiling as I swung up onto the Penguin’s dining platform. 

“My leopard seals!” Penguin cried, rushing to look over the railing as his two bodyguards lunged at me. “What have you _done_ to my leopard seals?”

“Same thing I’m doing to your bouncers,” I said, roundhouse kicking the first into the wall. Blood from his mouth stained the immaculate white of the lounge’s faux-igloo interior design, which might have been a sign that I hit him harder than necessary. I was more delicate with the second, punching him in the stomach. He doubled over, groaning. 

I ducked to the side when I heard movement from behind me. Doris sailed through the space where I’d been standing, returned from the kitchen with a wicked looking carving knife. She adapted quickly, turning fast with a swing that took advantage of the blade’s length. I ducked again, then darted forward to punch her where her attack had left her exposed.

“ _Ow!”_ she cried, dropping the knife as both hands went to hold her left breast. “What the _fuck!”_

I picked up the knife and tossed it into the water. “I used ketamine on the seals,” I said, turning to Penguin. “You may want to drain the pool before they drown.”

Penguin looked pointedly at Doris. She walked away towards the stairs, massaging her injured asset and grumbling with annoyance. 

“Are you quite done beating up my staff?” Penguin demanded, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know,” I said, somewhat petulantly. “They hit me pretty hard with their stun guns earlier.”

“That was your own fault,” Penguin huffed. “A clear case of breaking and entering. I’m an honest entrepreneur with every right to protect my establishment.” 

“You tried to feed me to leopard seals.”

Penguin glanced back over the railing, watching with fond concern as the water was drained. “I own those seals perfectly legally.”

The exotic pet ownership laws in Gotham were crazier than any villain I’d ever put in Arkham. 

“Trying to feed people to legally owned seals is still attempted murder,” I said. 

“Oh, _please_ ,” Penguin said. He grabbed his top hat off his table, setting it back on his head. “If I thought for one moment you couldn’t get out of that hoary old deathtrap, I wouldn’t have bothered. I even left your belt on.”

“Hmm.”

“Such a Debby downer,” Penguin said, rolling his eyes. “How Eddie can find you so entertaining, I’ll never know.” He glanced back at me conspiratorially. “He told me about your little collaboration the other day, you know. Pandora’s Box, eh?”

At least that confirmed my suspicion that the two were still in contact.

“Any collaborations between you and Edward that _I_ should know about?” I asked.

He laughed. “Why Batman, are you trying to make me blush?”

I stared at him.

“Oh, no, you’re being boring,” he surmised. “Of course. No, Eddie and I have not been comprising crimes behind closed doors. To my knowledge, he’s gone as straight as I have.” He chuckled lightly. “Well, as straight as he can, anyway.”

Right. 

“I’ll believe you’re clean when I see it,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “And I _will_ be watching, Cobblepot.”

Penguin grinned, showing off his sharp white teeth. “Well, why do so from the shadows?” he asked. He reached into his suit pocket, drawing out a yellow ticket from behind the expensive fabric. “Be my guest tomorrow night at the big reopening. Everyone gets a plus one — you can bring that Batwoman with you!”

I took the tickets dubiously, tucking them into a pouch of my utility belt. “Batwoman and I aren’t married,” I felt required to clarify. It was weird enough when ground-level thugs thought I was in a relationship with my cousin, but for some reason a villain like Oswald making the same mistake was even worse.

“I should hope not,” he said reprovingly. “What with the way you carry on with Selina. Still, shameful you never take her anywhere.” 

....I still couldn’t tell what he thought my relationship to Kate was. I briefly considered asking him, but decided to grapple away instead. The lounge’s skylight was still open; it had been unlocked when I originally arrived. Crawling in through a window in the ceiling might have still been breaking and entering in the GCPD’s book, but from my perspective it might as well have been a red carpet. 

Had this really all just been an elaborate excuse for Penguin to invite me to his party? I’d assumed when I gained entry so easily that Oswald would have set up fake evidence for me to find, or just had a party of gunmen waiting to fire. Whatever his long game was, I had no better idea of it now than when I walked in. But I’d been burned by Penguin too many times to believe this “new” stage of his reform was genuine. 

Whatever his reasoning, he was in luck. Batman would never attend an event of this sort, but Bruce Wayne had already RSVPed. Alfred assured me he’d already penciled in a suitable socialite for the occasion, saving me the trouble of finding a date. 

His efforts were appreciated, given that it was already 3am and I actually needed to get some sleep before my appointments today. Normally it was only my night time activities I worried about my alertness for. But today at noon, I had a recurring meeting that I always wanted to be fully awake for. 

. . . . 

“You’re clear, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you, William,” I said, pulling my shoes back on. 

Arkham security was considerably more frustrating than airport security, but I had a lot more patience for the process. Partially because the likeliness of any given Arkham visitor being employed by a supervillain was _considerably_ higher than the likeliness that any given plane passenger was carrying a bomb in their shoe. But also because I was personally less likely to try to sneak a weapon into Arkham than onto a plane. 

Satisfied, the guard buzzed me into the visitation room. The lock mechanism clicked its assent, and I opened the door. 

“Hey, Harv.”

“Bruce,” he said. He tipped his head in acknowledgement of my presence. He was sitting sideways, as much as his restraints allowed, blocking my view of his “bad” side.

This was my first visit since his last breakout, which was four months ago now. Normally it took a few weeks after his re-entry for him to accept my visits; if he didn’t consent, I was turned away at the door. I could understand that. Harvey always felt his lowest immediately post-capture. Sometimes he would provoke the guards into putting him in solitary, just to get away from social engagement. I’d learned pretty early on in this cycle that Harvey didn’t want to see me until he’d had time to readjust.

I came to Arkham every other Sunday anyway. Even if Harvey chose not to see me, being offered a choice was still a point of contact. I didn’t trust the message that the absence of that choice would send. 

He gestured encouragingly to the chair across the table from him, as if I’d just knocked on the door to his office. It was a glimpse of his old humor that I appreciated, even if he obviously wasn’t feeling it. Harvey was trying. He didn’t always. 

“You look good,” I said, sitting down.

He laughed. I always said that; it was the first thing I’d said to him in the hospital all those years ago, a stunning lapse of social intelligence that had made him laugh so hard that the doctors kicked me out.

“If you’re going to keep greeting me like a prom date, you could at least bring me flowers,” he said.

“I tried that a few years ago, actually,” I said. “Can’t. Ivy.”

“Damn,” he said, leaning back as far as the chains restraining him would allow. “You know, I think about half of the security precautions in this place are just for Pamela. They should really just drop her in Antarctica or something. Make life easier for the rest of us.” 

“I feel like that would probably interfere with her therapy,” I suggested.

“Ah, right,” he said, picking at his nails. “Forgot that was what we’re supposed to be doing here.”

That didn’t bode well. 

“How are you doing, Harvey?” I asked cautiously. 

“Doctors say the cracked rib is healing fine,” he said. “So, better than I could be.”

I winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Harvey shrugged. “Not your fault.”

It completely was, given that I’d been the one to kick Harvey in the chest while swinging from a grapple at 200 kph. But that doesn’t seem like it would be a productive thing to mention at the moment.

Harvey shifted in his seat. “How are the kids?” he asked, picking up on my awkwardness and trying to change the subject.

“They’re doing well,” I said. He was being polite in referring to all of them; the only kid he’d gotten a chance to know under the cowl was Dick. “Richard’s going with a model right now.”

The model was a fugitive princess from an alien planet, but I decided to keep that information to myself. 

He snorted. “Like father like son, I guess.” 

“I’m sure he’d be mortified to hear you say that,” I said. “He’s under the impression that he’s better than me at romantic relationships.”

Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Is he?”

“Well... yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “But that bar is so low that I’d be more impressed if he managed to squeeze under it.”

“I bet he could if he tried,” Harvey said, the corner of his mouth turning up in the ghost of a smile. “Gotta use all that circus training for something.”

“I’m sure he could find something more productive to do with it,” I said, then paused. “Harv, not that I’m not enjoying this—”

“But.”

“—but I can’t help but notice this is earlier then we’d usually be talking,” I finished. “Is this about Gilda?”

He straightened, chains scraping as he turned to face me fully. “Do you _have_ information about Gilda?” he asked, his good eye staring at me intently. 

I didn’t allow my expression to change as the rest of his face came into view. “Not really,” I said. “She won’t let me know where she is, either. She called me from a payphone a couple months back, to let me know they were doing okay.”

Harvey nodded slowly. I knew exactly where Gilda Dent was, of course. She was thorough in hiding her tracks, but not _that_ thorough. At the moment she was in Keystone, waitressing at a family restaurant and renting the top floor of a suburban duplex for her and Duela. She’d allowed me to send a check to a P.O. box once, but generally Gilda didn’t want any connections that could be traced back to Gotham. Her husband had a lot of enemies, and she had a daughter to worry about. 

Harvey understood that, most of the time. 

“I’m.... glad to hear they’re fine,” he said, not looking especially glad about anything. “But no, Gilda isn’t why I agreed to see you.”

“Okay,” I said, expectant. His expression suggested that he hadn’t just been in the mood for a chat. 

He folded his arms against the edge of the table. “I’m aware that this is going to sound somewhat hypocritical—”

“Oh, God,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “You came to give me constructive criticism?”

“—but I’m concerned about the company you’ve been keeping,” he finished. 

There... was really only one person that could be referring to, though it was unsettling that Harvey could have heard about my interactions with him in Arkham. I’d checked the tabloids; blurry photos had surfaced placing Riddler at Veronica’s party had surfaced, but even he wouldn’t have been recognizable if not for his trademark green derby and question mark plastered suit jacket. I hadn’t seen any accounts of the two of us interacting at all, at least since that highly publicized morning at Wayne Manor, which had come as somewhat of a relief. 

Not that I didn’t _want_ anyone to know that I’d been meeting with Edward... but I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been meeting with Edward. Bruce Wayne would hardly be the first Gothamite socialite to rub elbows with a supervillain; technically speaking, that’s what I was doing right now. But everyone knew about Harvey Dent and Bruce Wayne. Any interaction with the Riddler was a completely unnecessary connection to my identity as Batman. 

“I know you never hit it off with Ronnie, but she’s really not that bad once you get to know her,” I said. “I mean, she is. But it’s in an endearing—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Bruce,” Harvey said with a frown. “You always do that. It’s not a good habit. Especially if you’re going to hang around Edward Nygma.” 

I sighed. “I’m not ‘hanging around’ Nygma. He showed up on my doorstep with a dozen paparazzi. That’s not a hangout, it’s an ambush.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “And what do you call brunch at the Regent Grill?”

“He acquitted me in a murder case, Harv,” I said. “Of course I bought him brunch. What am I, rude?”

I got the sense that both of Harvey’s eyebrows would be raised, if he had more than the one. 

“Alright, well, touché,” I said. “But just because I act like an entitled lech half the time doesn’t mean I can’t be polite in this one particular instance.”

“Sure,” he said. “And in the _one particular instance_ of you having lunch at his office? Before his business even officially opened?”

I laughed, incredulous. “What are you, having me followed?” 

He rolled his good eye. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bruce. All this information is second hand. You aren’t the only one curious about Arkham’s latest ‘success’ story.”

Interesting. “You sound skeptical,” I said, tilting my head. 

“It’s not skepticism,” Harvey said. “It’s personal experience. I don’t know if Nygma was making headway or not before he left. It doesn’t matter. He wasn’t done with his therapy when Bishop paid off the doctors. No halfway house, no treatment plan — he’s not better. He’s just out.”

“So you think he’s planning something,” I said. I didn’t let it show on my face, but my pulse had started to quicken. Penguin had been decidedly unhelpful. If Harvey had an idea of what Edward was scheming...

“Maybe,” Harvey said, sitting back. “It’s a popular theory around here. Half of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. But even that wouldn’t bode well.”

“No?” 

Harvey shrugged. He ran his thumb over the side of his index finger, ghosting nothing. “Either he doesn’t want to get better,” he said, his fingers closing into a fist. “Or he thinks he already is.”

He opened his hand, looking down at his empty palm before glancing back up at me. “Either way, there’s going to be fallout,” he said. “I know how you are about charity cases, Bruce. But you don’t want to be there when the coin lands.”

I frowned. “You’re not a charity case, Harvey.”

He chuckled, though the humor didn’t make it to his eyes. “Good old Bruce,” he said. “Always focusing on the wrong thing.”

He stood up, raising his head to catch the attention of the guard outside. “I said what I wanted to say,” he said as the door opened. “Take it or leave it.”

I rose to my feet as well, watching with dismay as security untethered his chains from the table, starting to pull him away. “Harvey, I—”

“If you do leave it,” he called over his shoulder, ignoring my interjection. “Tell Nygma I said ‘hi.’”

The door closed behind them. 

. . . .

“Over here, Bruce!”

“Hey Ronnie,” I said, walking over to her table. She leaned forward expectantly, and I kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry for the delay. It took me a while to get away from my last appointment.”

“Oh, you don’t need to be sorry, Bruce,” Matthew said with a laugh. “It’s not like anyone was expecting you to be early.”

His and Veronica’s dates giggled in assent, though Ronnie gave me a look of sympathy. She’d always had a little too much insight into my schedule.

“I apologize, Bruce,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “When I heard Matthew was introducing us to his new beau, I assumed we were all bringing plus ones. If I’d known you were stagging it, I wouldn’t have bothered bringing along Micheal.” 

Veronica’s date, who definitely wasn’t the same man I met at her party the other night, had the grace to not look visibly offended.

“No worries, Ronnie, you assumed correctly,” I said, sitting down. “I think she’s just similarly delayed. But since you brought it up...” I trailed off, giving Matthew a significant look.

“Oh, right!” he said, jumping to his feet. “Bruce, meet... Helen!”

She waved at me, flushing, as he gestured to her with both arms. 

“Helen Iverson,” she said, finishing for him. “I work with Matthew at the museum.”

Matthew sat back down, grinning. “She’s the P.R. Director,” he explained. “Which keeps her _really_ busy, normally, but she’s had some free time lately because all the venues keep cancelling on her.”

“Matt!” she exclaimed, elbowing him. “You could have given me at _least_ five minutes to make a good impression before telling your friends I’m bad at my job.”

His face fell, dismayed. “You’re not bad at your job!” he protested. “It’s not your fault the museum’s last five fundraisers have all been attacked by supervillains. Why do you think I wanted you to meet Bruce and Veronica so bad? They’re, like, the king and queen of Gotham fundraisers. If anyone could give you pro-tips, it’s these two.”

“Pro-tips on what to do during a supervillain attack, or pro-tips on fundraiser planning?” Veronica asked. “Because those are different things. Although in this town there _is_ a lot of overlap.”

“Oh, God, I don’t know,” Helen said, pressing a hand to her temple. “Both? Either? Everett always made it look so easy when he did this job. I had _no_ idea how complicated event planning was in Gotham.”

Matthew patted her shoulder, looking sympathetic. “I’m sure Everett would have left better instructions for you if he’d known he was leaving the position,” he said. “I think the crocodiles surprised him more than anyone.”

Helen placed her other hand on her temple as well, massaging the sides of her head somewhat frantically.

“Well, I’m flattered by your faith in us, Matt,” I said. “But to be honest, Ronnie and I have success at event planning because we don’t _have_ to meet with venues.”

“True,” Veronica agreed. “If you have a manor on hand, you don’t have to convince the Gotham Botanical Gardens that Poison Ivy isn’t going to crash your book club.”

“Oh,” Matthew said, frowning. He turned to Helen. “We could have it at my apartment?”

I sighed. Normally I would assume this was a set-up, but twenty years of knowing Matthew Atkins had taught me that there were no such machinations going on in that blond head of his.

“Why don’t you give me your card,” I told Helen. “I’m sure I could help you figure out something.”

“Oh my gosh, _thank_ you,” Helen said, scrambling to grab her purse. She rifled through the strapless handbag for a few moments, then pulled out a business card victoriously.

“Me too,” Veronica added, never one to be outdone. “I’ll see if I can spare his butler some of the headache.”

“I was also going to contribute,” I protested as Helen handed cards over to both of us. 

“Sure,” Veronica said. “Tell that one to Alfred sometime, I bet he’ll find it hilarious. Wait— oh, Bruce, is that who I _think_ it is?”

I turned, then stood up. “Long time no see,” I said, raising an arm for a side hug. 

Cassandra wrapped her arms around my chest, squeezing tightly. “Hello,” she said, grinning up at me. 

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me you were bringing your daughter?” Veronica said. “I would have brought Bunny.”

“Your four year old?” I asked as we sat down.

“Yes?” Veronica said cautiously, watching to gauge my reaction. “...No. I don’t know. How are you doing, Cassandra?”

“Good,” Cass said, waving at the rest of the table. Matthew waved back, enthused. 

“I see Bruce taught you the art of being fashionably late,” Matthew said.

“Sorry.”

“No, no, that wasn’t a criticism,” Matthew clarified quickly. “Really, it’s an important skill for any young socialite to master.”

Cassandra looked gratified. She wasn’t an aspiring socialite, per se, but she had been trying to master socialization. David Cain had never taught his daughter language, much less the finer points of social etiquette. Apparently Dale Carnegie’s “How to Make Friends and Influence People” wasn’t a part of his curriculum for the perfect child assassin. 

“Tim bought coffee,” she explained. “After the airport. It went long.”

I should have known that Tim would usurp Alfred in picking Cassandra up. I was glad they’d gotten a chance to catch up; really, I would have been happy if the pair had spent the rest of the day together. But Cassandra had mentioned before her flight that she wanted a chance to practice social niceties with people outside of the family. 

“The airport?” Veronica said, perking up. “I didn’t even realize you left Gotham. Did you have a fun little vacay?”

Cassandra glanced back at me.

“She's studying abroad, actually,” I said. “I recommended her a few of the places I traveled during my college years.”

“Oh, God,” Veronica said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ about to disappear for the good part of a decade.”

Cassandra shook her head. “Not the plan,” she said. “I like Gotham.”

“She’s being nice,” I said. “Cass just doesn’t need to. She’s way ahead of where I was at her age.”

I grinned at her, as genuinely as I could muster. I tried to be as visually expressive as possible with Cassandra; body language was her vernacular, even if it wasn’t a mode of communication I used very often. 

She smiled back at me. “ _Way_ ahead,” she admitted, earning a few grins from the table. 

“Aw, good for you,” Veronica said, playfully pushing Cassandra’s shoulder. Cass allowed the hand to push her slightly backwards, giving the convincing impression of a teenager who was not a wall of solid muscle. “That means you have more time to party!”

“So it’s unfortunate you returned to Gotham now,” Veronica’s date said, forcibly reminding me of his continued existence. Helen snorted from the seat next to him.

“It is?” Cassandra asked, frowning.

“Oh, it’s not you,” Matthew said quickly. “They’re talking about that whole Penguin thing tomorrow.” 

“Penguin?” Cassandra asked, turning to me.

“Oswald is reforming,” I said. “Again.”

“He’s having a party to celebrate his lounge reopening,” Veronica explained. “Or... re-reopening. Re-re-reopening?”

“Something like that,” I said. “You aren’t going, are you?”

She bit her lip. “I, ah. Haven’t decided yet.”

I leaned forward, concerned. “Ronnie. He kidnapped you.” 

“Well, that wasn’t _his_ fault,” she protested. “I mean, it was. In the literal sense. But you can’t deny that some of the blame was on me. And, you know. Pierce.”

“Oh, I am absolutely not denying either of those things,” I said. She winced. “But he still tried to kill you two over it. Not going to his party seems like the healthy response to that. For you _and_ him.”

“He wants me to go, though!” Veronica exclaimed. “He gave me my invitation in person. Made an appointment at my office and everything. He said it was of the utmost importance to him that we put everything behind us.”

“A statement that couldn’t possibly have any ulterior motives,” I said. “Seriously, Ronnie, what are you thinking?”

She tilted the water in her glass, uncomfortable. “I don’t know, I just feel bad,” she said. “Maybe you’re right. I mean, God. He said I could take a plus one, but I can’t imagine how awkward I would feel showing up with some male model on my arm.”

I managed to hold in my sigh of relief. At least she was being reasonable about this. “Of course I’m—”

My phone rang. I reached down to turn it off, then realized it wasn’t in my pocket.

“Bruce Wayne’s phone,” Cassandra said. I looked up at her. She was holding my cell up to her ear, frowning into the receiver. “Seventeen. Probably. Why?”

“Cass,” I said, holding out my hand. She dropped the phone into it without saying goodbye to whoever was on the other end. “For future reference, we generally don’t answer the phone at the table.”

She nodded seriously, visually filing the information away for later. 

“Excuse me,” I said to our dining companions, getting up. 

Veronica waved me off. “If the waiter comes by, I’ll order you a salad.”

I made my way towards the back of the restaurant, near the bathrooms. “Sorry about that,” I said into the phone as I walked. “This is Bruce speaking. How can I help you?”

“I take it this is a bad time?”

“Edward,” I said, surprised. It had been a while since we last talked. He hadn’t been joking when he said his schedule was about to get busy. “No, it’s fine. I can spare a few minutes. Everyone’s talking about the insanity that is Penguin’s party tomorrow. I’d be happy for the distraction.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“....You called to talk about Penguin’s party,” I guessed.

“I did,” he said. “But I believe you’ve answered my question without my having to ask it, which is surprisingly economical for a conversation with a billionaire.” 

“I try,” I said, leaning my back against the wall. “I take it you’re going, then?”

“Oswald invited me, yes,” Edward said. “But he said I could bring a plus one, which raised an issue.” 

“How so?” I asked. Surely there were Riddler groupies out there somewhere. Not as many as there were Joker groupies, obviously, but they had to exist.

“Well, normally Oswald _is_ my plus one,” Edward said. “At gatherings of rogues, anyway. Which are all the social events I’ve been invited to.” 

There was a pause. 

“...In recent years,” he added. 

“Of course,” I said. “Well, yes. Obviously you can’t go with the host. But if you were hoping I could find you a socialite date for the evening, you would have better luck calling my butler. I just go on dates. He’s the one with the address book.”

I was just offering Alfred’s services to everyone today, apparently. I needed to do something nice for him when I got home, otherwise I just asking for a whack upside the head with his serving tray.

“That won’t be necessary,” Edward said. “I’ll let you get back to your seventeen year old... acquaintance.” 

“Daughter,” I said, frowning. “Seventeen year old dau— and he hung up.”

I pocketed my phone, changing the setting to vibrate. That was unusually brief for a conversation with Edward. I made my way back to the table, where the group had appeared to come to some kind of agreement. 

“—going to be _so_ much fun,” Veronica said, her enthusiasm returned. She glanced up at my approach. “Speak of the devil! Cassie solved it, Bruce.”

“Solved what?” I asked, sitting back down.

“The whole Penguin thing,” Matthew said. “Cassandra figured out a date for Veronica, I think. I’m not sure. I got distracted when Helen reminded me that we weren’t invited.”

“And that date is... me?” I asked. “I can’t go with you, Ronnie. Alfred already found me a date.”

“It’s not you,” Veronica said, rolling her eyes. “And someday we have _got_ to talk about how you have your adoptive father scheduling your love life. But you’re going to have to cancel on your butler’s girl of the week anyway, because you’re taking Cassie.”

I raised an eyebrow at Cassandra. “I am?”

“You don’t have to,” she said quickly, looking embarrassed. “Didn’t know you had plans.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure Jackie will understand. And depending on how the night goes, I might end up appreciating the backup.”

Cass grinned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus starts Detective Comics #824! Cass isn't in the original "Night of the Penguin" story, but I've been itching to include her so here she is regardless. 
> 
> The scene with Harvey was inspired from the Telltale version of his origin, where the player can choose to have Bruce awkwardly tell him he "looks good" after his accident. Bruce also brings flowers, which Harvey jokes is very prom-esque. I tried to find a Youtube video of this exchange but apparently I'm the only person who ever picked that option, which is understandable given how insane it is in context.
> 
> The plot Bruce and Veronica are referencing is the episode "Birds of a Feather" from Batman: The Animated Series, where Veronica's gay best friend convinces her it would be funny to pretend to go on dates with a reformed Penguin in order to hype up her next party. Shockingly, this does not go well. It's a sad episode but Bruce is VERY entertainingly petty throughout (presumably out of annoyance that Veronica has replaced him with a twink).


	9. Journalistic Intergrity

“I didn’t mean _this_ much backup.”

Cass punched me in the shoulder. “Be nice.”

She hooked her arm through mine, leading me over to the section of the Penguin’s completely unnecessary red carpet where Veronica Vreeland and her date were posing for pictures. Ronnie perked up when she noticed our approach.

“That dress is _so_ cute on you Cassie, you look fabulous in black,” Veronica said, gesturing a diamond-encrusted finger towards Cassandra’s ensemble.

“Thanks,” Cass said, flushing. “Alfred picked it.”

“I assumed,” Veronica said. “And Bruce, looking as good as always.” She frowned. “...Also in black.”

She glanced over at her date, who was similarly dark-garbed. “Oh my God,” Veronica said, paling. “I should have worn black. Wearing turquoise to an event in Gotham? What am I, a supervillain?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I said.

“Oh, shut up, Bruce,” Veronica’s date said. “You look great Vree, don’t listen to him. He’s just bitter that Alfred made him wear a scarf with color.”

I sighed. “It’s great to see you too, Kate,” I said. “I’m doing well. And you?”

Onlookers might not have believed it, but Katherine Kane and I had gotten along really well when we were children. Our parents had always had a difficult time finding kids as weird as us to arrange playdates with, so whenever the Kanes were in Gotham they would set us loose on the manor grounds to get in as much socialization as possible. 

We still had a mutual respect for each other, but things had changed over the years. Certain philosophical differences had emerged as we’d gotten older. And we had both become considerably worse at sharing our toys.

“Oh, I’m doing good,” Kate said, putting an arm around Veronica’s shoulders. “I was planning on knocking heads tonight, until Cass gave me a call. I have to say, this seems like it’s going to be far more interesting.”

I had to give it to Cassandra; if Penguin was planning on getting revenge on Veronica, she couldn’t have a better bodyguard for the evening. 

“Knocking heads,” Veronica echoed. “Is that a euphemism for something? I’m not familiar with all the lesbian lingo.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to,” Kate said, leading Veronica towards the entrance. “We’ll see you later, Cass. Bruce.”

“I wouldn’t mind learning, though,” I could hear Ronnie say as they walked away. “You know. As a lesbian supporter.”

I stared at Cassandra. She grinned back at me.

“Are you turning evil?” I asked her, putting my arm over her shoulder to pose for a picture. “You have to warn me if you’re turning evil. I have you pretty far down on the list of allies I’m making contingency plans for, but I can move you up if I have to.”

“Not evil,” she said, smiling angelically for the camera. She must have been practicing. Usually her smiles looked more like she was baring her teeth. “Just having fun.” 

“I’m moving you up,” I decided. 

“Fair,” she said. We waved goodbye to the paparazzi, heading into the Iceberg Lounge.

I’d already seen Penguin’s renovations when I dropped by the night before last, so much of the “grand reveal” was lost on me. But I had to admit the faux igloo effect was architecturally impressive, if tacky. He’d already replaced the furniture I’d broken too, which couldn’t have been easy, given that they looked custom. Although Penguin was the kind of man to have made precautions for Bat-related damages in advance. 

The man himself was standing in the reception area, where he appeared to be having an incredibly awkward conversation with Veronica. Or, more accurately, an incredibly awkward conversation with Kate’s elbow, which Veronica was standing resolutely behind. 

“My dear Mr. Wayne!” Penguin said, a profound expression of relief coming over his face as he noticed my entrance. He waved goodbye to the pair of redheads, walking in my direction as quickly as possible without losing dignity. “Delighted to see you again, sir.”

I’m sure he was, for once. “Welcome back to Gotham, Mr. Cobblepot,” I said, extending a hand.

He shook it heartily, then turned to Cassandra. “And, who may I ask, is your delightful companion? The newest Miss Gotham, perhaps?”

Penguin wasn’t looking at me, so I didn’t bother to hide my eye roll. 

“Cassandra Cain-Wayne,” Cass said. She looked confused, which was understandable, given that I doubted she had ever been introduced to the concept of beauty pageants. She extended a hand, mimicking me, and Penguin kissed it delicately.

“A pleasure to meet you, my dear,” Penguin said. “Your dress this evening is stunning.”

That one hit. “Thanks,” Cass said, grinning as she spread out the skirt of the dress with her hands. “It’s maneuverable.”

“It twirls nice,” I corrected when confusion crossed Penguin’s features. 

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I have to say, Mr. Wayne, I was surprised to see you walk in.”

“Really?” I asked. “I distinctly remember RSVPing. Or telling my butler to RSVP, anyway, which is more reliable than if it had been me.” 

“And he did so,” Penguin assured me. “But a little bird told me you wouldn’t be attending tonight.”

“A little bird?” Cass echoed.

“That would be me, I’m afraid,” said a voice from behind us.

“Eddie, good to see you!” Penguin said, pulling his friend into a fond, if efficiently businesslike embrace. “I wasn’t going to rat you out as my source, you know.”

“Right, you’re so famous for never going stool pigeon on your associates,” Edward said dryly. There wasn’t any malice in his tone, and Oswald chuckled in response. 

He turned to me. “But yes, that was the impression I got from our conversation yesterday. You sounded extremely unenthused with the prospect of attending.”

Oswald opened, then closed, his mouth. Cassandra winced, the awkwardness of our body language seeming to cause her almost physical pain. Edward sipped at his cocktail.

“...Well, I was somewhat stressed at the time,” I said carefully, successfully managing not to strangle him. “Visiting day at Arkham.”

Oswald clucked sympathetically, looking relieved at the change in subject. “And how is Mr. Dent?”

“Fine,” I said. “Cracked rib. He told me to tell Nygma he said hi, actually.”

Edward paled noticeably, which was gratifying. Cassandra watched him curiously. He noticed her gaze and latched onto it.

“Cassandra Wayne, I assume?” he asked, holding out his hand for her to shake. He blinked in surprise as she kissed it instead.

“Riddler,” she said, glancing up at him speculatively through her eyelashes. 

“Cass would be my ‘seventeen year old acquaintance,’” I said, setting my hand on her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said slowly, removing his hand from Cassandra’s and placing it in his pocket. “I... discerned that.” 

There was a moment of silence.

“ _Well!”_ Penguin said, clapping his hands together. “We’re all introduced now. It was lovely to meet you, Miss Cain-Wayne,” he said, nodding at Cassandra. “Edward, I’ve been meaning to show you my new desk. In my office.” 

Edward glanced over at Penguin, surprised. “Of course,” he said, turning after his friend who was already walking away. “I’ll... see you later, Bruce.”

I raised my hand to give him a short wave, but he’d already disappeared into the crowd.

“Well, that was fascinating.”

Cassandra jumped. I turned around, surprised.

“Lois,” I said, pleased. “You’re getting good at that.”

“Stealth is a handy talent in my line of work,” Lois said, tucking a notepad into her handbag. “I bet your Batman would be a great journalist.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I don’t know. Isn’t transparency important in journalism?”

“True,” she said, pointing her pen at me before dumping it in her bag. “I forget that ‘truth, justice, and the American way’ is my guy, not yours.”

“Speaking of the men in your life,” I said. “Is Clark here?”

“Oh, great segway,” Lois said, closing her purse. “Subtle. No, he’s in Smallville for something. Apparently there’s been a farming emergency. He was not specific.”

For a man who’d spent his whole life pretending to be human, Clark was not a great liar. “Forget I asked,” I said. 

“Gladly,” she replied, then reached out to take Cassandra’s hand. Unlike Edward, she did not give the girl the chance to do anything other than a quick shake. “Lois Lane. I work at the _Daily Planet_ , in Metropolis.”

“And yet you blend right in,” I said, gesturing to her dark cocktail dress.

“We _do_ have black in Metropolis, Wayne,” she said. “Normally I wouldn’t come to this hell city to cover a social event — no offense,” she added.

“None taken.”

“—but Luthor’s in town, and I guessed it might have been for this.” She frowned. “Evidently I guessed wrong. I haven’t seen that shiny head of his anywhere.”

Cassandra froze next to me. I concurred with her assessment. 

“Luthor’s in town?” I asked, as casually as possible. 

“Yup,” Lois confirmed. “Took a private jet over this afternoon. He was being subtle about it, so I’m not surprised you didn’t hear.”

 _I_ was surprised. Lex Luthor’s arrival in Gotham was something I should have heard about immediately. The fact that hours had passed without me knowing was appalling. 

“But, no reason not to cover the ‘Grand Re-Re-Reopening’ while I’m here,” Lois finished. “Metropolitans love reading about Gotham villains. They’re all so... eccentric.”

“Technically speaking, _they’re_ no longer villains,” I said, gesturing in the direction Edward and Penguin disappeared. “They’ve been selling themselves as reformed entrepreneurs.” 

“Your tone suggests you don’t buy that,” Lois observed. 

“Oh, I’d like to,” I said. “I just don’t think I have that much money.” 

“Ha ha,” Lois said. “Well. It was nice chatting with you two, but on that note, I’m going to go stick my nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. The back room, maybe.”

“Sounds vaguely illegal,” I said.

“Don’t you start,” she said, gesturing dismissively behind her as she made her way towards the back of the lounge. We watched her go, her posture changing from assertive to wallflower as she drew closer to the restricted area.

“This is fun,” Cassandra observed. I offered her my arm, and she took it as we moved further into the party.

“I feel like this is giving you a false impression of Gotham social gatherings,” I said, smiling and nodding at notable faces as we walked past. “They’re normally not this interesting.”

There was a crowd gathering outside the casino area. We pushed through them easily, sidling along the outside edge of the room to watch the action. Most of the attention seemed focused around a single table, a group of men playing what looked like poker. 

“He’s winning,” Cassandra noted, gesturing towards a large man at the far end of the table. 

I narrowed my eyes. The man looked familiar — I’d seen him as hired muscle around Gotham, both legitimately and otherwise.

“Mr. Zzz,” I said.

“Gesundheit,” Cassandra quipped. I sighed. Maybe I should be putting more effort into keeping her away from Tim. 

“He’s a small time crook,” I explained. “Suffers from some bizarre kind of narcolepsy, allegedly. Always a gimmick with these people.”

“Bats,” Cassandra said, gesturing to ourselves.

“Touché,” I said. “He basically sleepwalks his way through life. Probably makes for a good poker face, though presumably it would prevent him from properly observing the game.”

Indeed, Zzz barely seemed conscious as he played his hand. From the expressions of his opponents, however, he appeared to be doing as well as Cass had claimed.

“Can I?” she asked, not looking away from the game in front of her. 

I reached into my pocket, then paused. “Do you... know _how_ to play poker?”

She glanced up at me, offended. Which was not actually an answer. 

“Don’t bankrupt us,” I relented, handing her my wallet. She took it cheerfully, heading off towards the booth where they were selling chips. I watched her go, weighing in my head the likeliness that David Cain had thought it more appropriate to teach a child poker than the alphabet.

I noticed a flash of green emerge from Penguin’s office out of the corner of my eye. I turned to watch as Riddler paused, scanning the crowd in the main room. He was wearing his usual costume tonight, though underneath his hat I could see that his hair had been more carefully slicked back for the formal occasion. There was a glint of gold on his tie that must have been a new clip; it was too far away to see from this distance, but from my closer perspective earlier, it had obviously been a question mark.

His gaze found mine faster than I’d been expecting, and he raised an eyebrow inquisitively. I nodded in the direction of the tables at the edge of the pool, then walked over to meet him there.

“It wasn’t my intention to create conflict between you and Oswald,” Edward said as soon as I was in earshot. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

So Penguin had taken him aside. This was startlingly close to an apology.

“It’s fine,” I said, because it actually had been, even if I’d felt momentarily awkward. “I shouldn’t have given you that impression.”

Edward sat down, tilting his head. “Implying it was purposeful.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, joining him at the table. “When I heard your voice on the call, I was concerned you were going to ask me to accompany you.”

“Ah,” Edward said, after a pause. His fingers fidgeted with the head of his cane. “And you... didn’t want to.”

“I already had company planned for the evening,” I clarified. “I didn’t want to say no and give you the wrong impression. But I should have just let you talk and given you an answer. I... have a bad habit of obfuscating my intentions before considering the truth as a possibility.” 

Which might have been a little too honest. Hopefully, deliberately withholding the fact that I’d had completely different company planned when I was on the phone with him cancelled that out.

“Well,” Edward, relaxing his grip on his cane. “Far be it from me to resent a man’s purposeful attempt to cause bewilderment.”

I smiled. “It did occur to me,” I admitted, “that you might be more sympathetic than my more straightforward acquaintances.” 

Edward laughed. “I _am_ on record as enjoying puzzles,” he said, then tilted his head. “Though there are some matters on which anyone would prefer an honest answer.”

“Right,” I said. “Like as to whether or not one’s cousin is going to fuck one’s single remaining childhood friend who has not become a supervillain.”

“I...” He stared at me. “I’m sorry?”

“Kate, Ronnie,” I said, grinning cheerfully as the two came into earshot. “Enjoying the party?”

“ _So_ much,” Veronica said, dropping into a nearby chair. “I can’t believe you tried to convince me not to come.”

“The host kidnapped you,” I said, again. “It wasn’t even that long ago. This is just common sense.”

“He _said_ he’s sorry,” Veronica said, prodding me in the shoulder with her purse. “And so am I, so it’s fine. Mutual forgiveness means I get to party.”

“It does not mean that,” I said. “It means there’s a significant chance he’s lying to you, and you have to take actions to prepare yourself for his inevitable betrayal.”

“Ah, yes, denial and paranoia,” Kate said, leaning over the back of Veronica’s chair. “Two equally healthy reactions to interpersonal conflict. But we _do_ have a tie-breaker here.”

“Am I supposed to believe that there’s a chance you would take my side?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not me,” Kate said, her eyes flicking over to Edward. “You’re a ‘reformed’ supervillain, Riddler. Tell me, if Bruce here feigned interest in seeing you socially and led you on by pretending to tolerate you — because he thought it would get him something, of course, not just out of pointless cruelty — would you forgive him? Or would you... oh, I don’t know. Invite him to a party as an excuse to feed him to your leopard seals?”

Edward kept his calculating eyes focused on Kate. “I assure you, Ms. Kane, Oswald’s reform is entirely genuine,” he said. “As is mine. Our deathtrap days are behind us. Even in the face of... social unpleasantness.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Kate said, squeezing Veronica’s shoulder. “I mean, hypothetically in Bruce’s case. Since he’s far too genuine of a person to create social unpleasantness.” 

“Does anyone want drinks?” Veronica said suddenly, tearing her gaze away from the leopard seals in Penguin’s pool. “I think I’m going to get drinks.”

“Whiskey, please,” Kate said, stepping back so that Veronica could stand up. 

“Vodka martini,” Edward said without looking at her. 

“You know my order,” I said. “Thanks, Ronnie.”

She smiled, though it was weaker than her normal grins. Kate took her seat as she wandered off in the direction of the bar.

“I apologize,” Kate said as she sat down. “You’re right Bruce, her guard was way too down. I couldn’t think of another way to convince her to be more cautious around Penguin.”

“No, I understand entirely,” I said. “I’m glad she has you watching her back tonight.”

“Of course,” Kate said. “I would never forgive myself if I let something happen to your friend.”

I waited.

“And she has a lovely back,” Kate added, inevitably.

I leaned forward. “If you have sex with my best friend I’m stealing your bike.”

Kate grinned. “Touch my bike and I hotwire your car.” 

“Ladies, ladies,” Edward interjected. “You’re both terrifying. But you’re about to have company.”

Kate and I glanced up to see Cassandra approach. 

“Out of cash,” she said apologetically. “Can I use your card?”

At least she was asking. Unlike some of her brothers. “Do you know how to play poker?” I asked again.

“I do now.”

I sighed, waving her off. “Fine. Don’t bankrupt us. I mean that more seriously this time.”

“Knock ‘em dead, kiddo,” Kate said, smiling encouragingly at Cassandra.

“Metaphorically,” I called after her as she left.

Kate frowned at me. “Obviously I meant metaphorically.”

“I try not to assume, with you,” I said.

“Drinks!” Veronica called out as she returned. She was flanked by a blonde cocktail waitress, who I noted with considerable dismay was Doris. The knife-happy criminal seemed to have made a full recovery, though in fairness all I’d really done was punch her in the boob. 

“Vodka martini,” Doris said, setting a glass in front of Edward. “Whiskey, neat. Sex On The Beach cocktail, ‘without an umbrella, because that’s childish.’”

“Thank you,” Veronica said, taking the glass directly out of the server’s hands. 

“Aaand water,” Doris said, setting my drink down on the table. “Oh, and the proprietor sent this along for you as well,” she said, placing a plate from her tray on the table before walking over to another group of customers. 

“Raw meat?” Kate asked, glancing over its contents. 

“For the seals,” Edward surmised. “Very thoughtful of him.”

“We definitely wouldn’t want them to be hungry,” Veronica agreed. She took a cocktail napkin off of the table, then used it to pick up a piece of the dripping meat and launch it into the pool. A seal jumped up to snatch it out of the air, and she gasped in excitement. 

Kate and I exchanged a look before she stood up, pulling out her chair for Veronica. 

“Oh, that’s so sweet Kathy,” Veronica said, giggling. “But I really need to keep making the rounds. Do you want to stay here?”

“No, I think I’ll stick with you,” Kate said, glancing cautiously at the plate of bleeding meat. “Besides,” she said, looking up. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Hardly,” Edward said, taking a significant sip of his martini. “This has been fascinating.”

“Have fun, Ronnie,” I said as she walked away, drink in hand. “Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do, Kate.”

She grabbed her whiskey from the table. “Anything,” she corrected.

“I said what I said, Katherine,” I told her back as she followed Veronica away.

Edward watched them go, contemplative. “I confess, I’ve been curious about the prospect of meeting your family.” 

“Have you?” I asked. I picked up another piece of the meat, duplicating Ronnie’s method. I tossed it in the direction of one of the smaller seals, at the pool’s far end. The animals all seemed to have recovered fully from the other night, which was good. I hadn’t intended to do any permanent damage to Penguin’s pets.

“Of course,” he said, watching my throw. “I thought seeing you interact with them might offer some insight into the puzzle that is Bruce Wayne.”

His tone was sarcastic, but I guessed his reasoning was genuine. “And?”

“It just raised more questions, really,” he said. “Katherine Kane. Formerly military, yes? Not a bad escort, when walking into the proverbial lion’s den.”

“Cassandra thought so,” I said. 

“She was... discharged, if I remember correctly?” Edward asked, eyes trained on his gloved fingers as they traced the edge of his glass. 

“Yes,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

Edward glanced up at me. “Unfortunate why she was discharged, or unfortunate that she was?” 

“I meant unfortunate from her perspective,” I clarified. “I’m actually glad she left the military. What she’s doing now is more worthwhile, even if we have our occasional disagreements.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Being a notorious playgirl is more worthwhile than serving our country?”

“Says the man who can’t vote in federal elections,” I observed.

“Fine,” Edward said, rolling his eyes. “Serving _your_ country.”

“I don’t like guns,” I said, picking up another piece of meat. The smaller seal had swam over to our side of the pool, sitting hopefully under the railing. I dropped the food into its waiting jaws. “And I feel like I’m just as notoriously pro-womanizing.”

“He is. It’s terrible.”

Edward jumped. I sighed. “Lois, this is a dangerous town to sneak up on people in.”

“Really?” she asked, taking Kate’s chair. “I would have assumed you’d all be used to it by now.”

“We are,” I said. “That’s why it’s dangerous. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Lois said, frowning. “I think Penguin might actually be reforming.”

I’d believe it when I saw it. “Sure.”

“No, really,” she insisted, pointing at Edward. “I was eavesdropping on their conversation earlier.”

Edward froze. “That... sounds vaguely illegal,” he said, putting down his drink. “How much did you overhear?”

She gave him a significant glance. “Enough that you don’t want to try doing anything about it.”

He picked his glass back up. “Fair enough.”

“Anyway,” she said, turning back to me. “I think he’s just trading off his previous criminal reputation for merchandising purposes. It’s not a bad strategy, you know. The ‘bad boy gone good’ routine did wonders for Lex.”

“Sure, until Luthor’s next scheme goes public,” I said, then paused. “Ah. Not that I’m implying—”

Edward made a dismissive gesture. “Please,” he said. “Like it would offend anyone with a criminal record to be compared to Lex Luthor.”

I really, really needed to figure out why Lex was in Gotham. “Then I suppose my point stands.”

“And we should too,” Lois said, getting up. She gestured towards the entrance to the lounge’s casino. “Unless we want to miss the floor show.”

She started walking over. Edward and I glanced at each other, then followed.

One of the dealers had stopped Penguin outside the door, and was whispering something insistently into his ear. He was distracted, trying to wrap up a conversation with a patron, until she said something that made him go as white as one of his domestic rock doves. He gave a hurried goodbye to the customer, pulling the dealer to the side.

“We’re down _HOW_ much?!” he hissed, presumably louder than he had intended.

“Eight hundred thousand dollars,” she said, glancing down nervously at the tablet in her hands.

“Change dealers!” he said, not even attempting to whisper now. 

She grimaced. “I’ve done that,” she said. “Twice.”

“Then cut him off!” Penguin shouted, pointing where Mr. Zzz was slumbering away on top of his mountain of chips. “Throw him out!”

His current dealer snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. Zzz dropped his cards on the table without even bothering to open his eyes. His fellow players groaned in frustration as he revealed his hand.

“Um,” the woman said, glancing over where Penguin had gestured. “On opening night? In front of the press?”

“Yeah,” Lois said from Penguin’s left. He jumped. “The _press_.” 

Zzz’s dealer stood up, walking over to the woman’s side. He whispered something in her ear before returning to the table.

“Ah,” she said, glancing over to Penguin.

“What?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

She swallowed. “He just won another two hundred and fifty thousand.”

Penguin put a hand to his hat in horror. “No.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cobblepot, but.... yes.”

“He’s cheating!” Penguin roared, pointing at Zzz accusingly. If the man had any awareness of the scene he was causing, he didn’t show it. “He has to be!”

Edward put a hand to his chin, considering. “No mirrors in sight,” he said. “And none of the guests behind his opponents are wearing a wire. I don’t see how he could be seeing their cards.” He tilted his head. “Especially given that he barely seems conscious.”

“He’s working for that... that _putz_ , isn’t he,” Penguin said, his fingers fretting over the brim of his top hat. “Well, he’s not getting back a cent. Not a _cent!”_

“Relax, Oswald,” Edward said. He pulled up his cane, fingers brushing against some hidden button that opened up the head. “I’m sure we can resolve this like gentlemen.”

“Oh, were we allowed to bring our tricked out supervillain gadgets?” Lois asked, taking a picture of Penguin holding his hat in his hands with her phone. “Damn. I left all mine at home.”

“I have special privileges,” Edward replied. He held the head of the cane up to his eye, glancing through a panel that had opened up at the center of the question mark. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?” I echoed, moving to stand behind him. I peered over his shoulder, trying to get a look at the makeshift screen. Edward started slightly when his back hit my chest, but turned his head to the side to give me a better view.

There must have been a camera on the other side of the cane’s head. The projected picture was green, which didn’t shock me. But there was a flashing point of red near Zzz’s temple. 

“Hmm,” Edward repeated. 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain what ‘hmm’ means,” I asked. Lois and Penguin were arguing in the corner now, though it appeared to be mostly Penguin arguing while Lois took more pictures. 

“I am not,” he said, closing the head of his cane. He grinned back at me. “But I suppose I could show you, since you’re so obviously intrigued.”

“That’s generous of you,” I said, stepping away from him as the screen disappeared from view.

“Not really,” he said, flipping his cane over his shoulder. “You’re driving. I don’t particularly feel like calling another Uber.”

He walked towards the bickering journalist and proprietor. I followed him. “You don’t have a car?” I asked, bewildered. 

“Tricked out supervillain gadgets take a lot out of the budget,” he said. “Oswald, I think I can solve your problem. But don’t do anything to alert our narcoleptic friend here while I’m gone. I don’t want to scare off my quarry.”

“If that’s what will solve this, fine,” Penguin snapped. “I threw every cent I have into tonight’s opening!”

“Meaning if he splits with all your cash, it’s torpedo time all for your future iceberg locations,” Lois said.

“Exactly!” Penguin said, then frowned. “Wait. How did you—”

He stopped when he saw the journalist’s grin.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you Lane,” he growled.

“Kinda, yeah,” she said, putting away her phone to grab her notepad. “You two kids have fun out there, okay?”

Edward grabbed my shoulder, pulling me in the direction of the valet. 

“Oh,” he assured her, “we will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously Kate Kane did not actually feature in this comic, BUT I adore her and could not resist adding her when I read that Penguin mentions "Batwoman" in this issue. I already added Damian in so I can do whatever I want! And I wanted Edward to have to meet Bruce's lesbian cousin. Lois Lane really canonically did show up to the Re-Re-Opening of the Iceberg Lounge though, which I personally find hilarious.


	10. Even a Worm Will Turn

“So this is what detective work is like,” I whispered. “I was expecting it to involve more chain smoking. And dames. And chain smoking dames.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “If I tell you you’re funny, will you shut up?” he asked, as quietly indignant as possible.

“It’s unlikely.”

“Then you’re not funny,” he said.

We were crouching below the boarded up window of an old warehouse. I was already composing mental apologies to Alfred for the disheveled state of my tux. Edward had his ear pressed to the wall, listening for movement within. So did I, but I was trying to be less obvious about it. From what I could tell, if there was anyone inside, they weren’t standing near the entrance of the building. Or they were waiting for us and being very quiet. The latter scenario was why I generally preferred to come in through the roof. 

“Let’s move,” Edward said, apparently satisfied with the lack of noise. He made his way over to the door, carefully staying crouched below window level. I followed his example, trying to do as little damage to my suit as possible while simultaneously not looking like I did this professionally. The latter was more successful than the former. 

Edward examined the lock on the door. “Can I have one of your credit cards?”

“No.”

He glanced over at me. “Why not?”

“Because I assume your interest would be in trying to break or steal it,” I said. “And I gave them all to Cassandra, so you’re out of luck either way.”

He sighed, pulling a lock pick out of his sleeve. “For the record, I was just going to memorize the numbers surreptitiously.”

“Oh, well, my apologies,” I said, watching as he unlocked the deadbolt. “I could just recite my social security number, if that would be helpful.”

The lock clicked open, and he pried open the door a crack to look through to the other side. “I wasn’t going to _steal_ from you,” he whispered, as if it was an unimaginable hypothetical and not something that had literally happened two years ago. “You did offer me a large sum of money the last time we met. I just thought it would be prudent information to have, in case of an emergency.” 

He opened the door wider, and I stood up to step over his head and enter the building. “If you have an emergency that requires buying something, you could just call me,” I said.

Edward rose to his feet behind me, straightening his suit. “I’ll... keep that in mind,” he said. “Now, I know you’re used to being center stage, but in this particular instance I’d prefer it if you—”

He stopped, staring at me. “Are you _sniffing?”_ He asked incredulously.

I inhaled again through my nose, breathing out through my mouth. “Do you smell that?” I asked.

There was quiet for a moment, as Edward tried to sniff the air with as much dignity as possible. Which was minimal. Sniffing was an inherently indignant activity.

“No,” he said eventually, sounding annoyed by his own answer.

“Books,” I said, picking a wooden board up from the floor and tucking it under my arm. “Old books.”

Edward tensed, raising his cane to chest level. “Could be Jonathan, then,” he said.

He looked about as enthused about that possibility as I was. Scarecrow was one enemy that I had no interest in fighting without the gas mask in my utility belt. I had no idea if Edward had preferred to take similar precautions before encountering his former colleague — or if he would even remember if he did — but the way his breaths shortened into a shallower pattern implied he had similar concerns about the toxicity of the air. 

The first time I ever fought the Scarecrow, I’d eventually tracked down his hideout to discover it full of books: everything from invaluable antiques to thrifted paperbacks. The collection had been confiscated by the GCPD when he was arrested, and was eventually auctioned off as such things inevitably were. I’d purchased a few myself, for research purposes. Scarecrow had attempted to rebuild his collection on a few separate occasions, though never quite to the same extent. If he’d started to do so again here, it would imply that he’d been staying in the warehouse for quite some time.

“Are Crane and Cobblepot engaged in some sort of feud?” I asked in a whisper. “Penguin did seem convinced that Zzz had been hired by someone specific.”

“I couldn’t say,” Edward said, eyes narrowing. “I’m not exactly in the loop anymore.” 

I was expecting him to protest that Penguin was reformed, but no such defense came. I supposed that technically speaking, one didn’t have to be an active criminal to have a feud with a supervillain. I certainly wasn’t.

“Well, I suppose it’s not like I’d prefer that you were,” I said. “Given that I’m alone with you in what may or may not be a supervillain lair.” 

“True,” Edward said, a bit of humor returning to his color-drained features. “How trusting you’re being, Mr. Wayne. Never fear— even if I had returned to my villainous circles, I would likely have only lured you here to be a hostage.”

“Ugh,” I said. “That’s worse than if you were planning to kill me. I hate being a hostage.”

“Well, being a hostage is a significant improvement over being Jonathan’s experiment,” Edward observed. His smile disappeared as he returned to the topic at hand.

As Scarecrow’s most frequent test subject, I was inclined to agree. “Maybe we should stop talking,” I suggested.

Edward nodded, making a zipping motion across his lips before turning away. If only he had always been that easy to silence. 

We moved through the dark storage rooms in silence. They were indeed filled with books, the height of the stacks growing higher the further we walked. I sacrificed my performative incoordination for the sake of safety; I had no intention of being doused with fear toxin just because Bruce Wayne wasn’t supposed to be experienced at avoiding detection.

The quiet sounds of people increased in volume the closer we drew to the back chambers of the warehouse. I could discern four separate voices; none were Scarecrow’s, though that didn’t guarantee that he wasn’t present. Eventually there was only a wall separating us from the sounds. We stood just far enough away from the open door that we were imperceptible to anyone looking out from within.

Edward opened the head of his cane, examining something on the screen within. He glanced up at me and nodded in the direction of the wall behind us. So Zzz’s signal was coming from the room. Edward didn’t look particularly thrilled about the confirmation.

 _Cover your ears,_ he mouthed. I didn’t hesitate to follow his command, hands shooting to the sides of my head. Plugging my ears didn’t completely protect me from the agonizingly high pitched shrill that emanated from Riddler’s cane, but the groans I could hear coming from the other room when the sound stopped indicated that I was at least faring better than the riff-raff. 

Edward said something I couldn’t totally catch due to the ringing in my ears, but when I looked over at him he was gesturing pointedly at the door. So he wanted me to go in first. I decided not to bother weighing whether this was evidence he knew who I was, or if he just wanted a human shield from potential fear toxin. I could withhold my judgement until we were out of immediate danger. 

I raised my wooden board over my shoulder as I rounded the corner, Edward following close behind me. The inhabitants of the room were still disoriented as we entered, though not quite as disoriented as Edward sounded upon seeing them.

“—GOT to be kidding me,” I heard him say as the ringing left my ears. _“Bookworm?”_

“In the perennial pride of the flesh,” Bookworm said, wincing as he rubbed his temples. “Ow.”

The man was wearing his typical brown leather suit, the borders detailed with gold acrylic to match his tie, his nails, and the reading lamp attached to his fedora.

“Kingor, you cannot possibly be feuding with Oswald,” Edward said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else.

“I appreciate your concern, Nygma,” Bookworm said, misreading Edward’s tone entirely, “but I had no choice. ‘Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed.’”

Edward stared at him.

 _“Othello,_ Act 3, Scene 3,” Bookworm added, unhelpfully.

I raised the wooden board higher.

“He extorted me in front of my men!” Bookworm cried, frustrated.

“And Ms. Limpet,” added one of his henchmen. A bespectacled woman in the corner nodded seriously.

Bookworm took a deep breath, then turned to face the speaker. 

_“DO NOT CORRECT ME!_ ” he screamed. The henchman threw his hands up to protect his damaged ears, stumbling backwards. Bookworm moved back to face Edward and I. 

“You see?” he said. “Intolerable. I _had_ to earn back their respect somehow.”

“I see,” Edward said, stroking his chin with a gloved hand. “And you decided the best way to accomplish this was through surreptitiously winning back what Oswald forced you to give?”

“Exactly,” Bookworm said with a smirk.

“A plan that not only allows you to never confront Oswald directly, but to hide safely in the shadows while one of your henchmen entered his place of business for you,” Edward concluded.

Bookworm frowned, then gestured to the henchmen behind him. “Killing a cruelty,” he said, “is not a cruelty. Amit Kalantri.”

They nodded, trying to look thoughtful. Ms. Limpet jotted it down on her yellow legal pad.

“That means KILL THEM you imbeciles!” Bookworm shouted, and the group sprung into action as soon as he raised his voice. 

Edward flipped a switch near the center of his cane, then swung it around to hit one of the henchmen in the chest. At contact, the head of the cane alighted with what was obviously a great many volts of electricity, and the man convulsed before falling to the ground.

The look of unmitigated delight in Edward’s eyes was slightly concerning, but I decided to ignore it in favor of focusing on the goon who was advancing on me with a baseball bat. When the man swung down, I intercepted the blow with my wooden board. My makeshift shield shattered in half at the impact.

“Glasses?” I said, interrupting the henchman’s sadistic grinning.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Your glasses,” I repeated. “Can you take them off?”

He just laughed, raising the bat for another swing.

“Whatever,” I said, kicking him in the knee. As he stumbled backwards, shrieking in surprise, I whacked him in the face with one half of the broken board, then reared back to hit him with the other. He fell to the ground, glasses shattered. 

“You did warn him,” said a voice from behind me.

I turned around to see Ms. Limpet, holding a book entitled ‘The History of the English Language.’

“You could take off yours too,” I suggested. 

She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose with a finger. “I could,” she agreed. “But I don’t think that will be necessary.

I dropped to the ground as she started to open the book in her hands, which was definitely some kind of tricked out supervillain gadget. I swept her legs out from under her, grabbing the book as it fell. I caught her face between its hissing pages. After a few moments, the sound of snoring emanated from behind the cover. I lowered her carefully, setting the sleeping woman down on the floor with the book as a pillow.

Most of the henchmen had rushed Edward, seeing him as the bigger threat. I would have made the same call, were I in their shoes; the Riddler wasn’t the most physically formidable of my enemies, but those unable to put up a good fight didn’t last long in his social circles. Former social circles.

Bookworm seemed bent on illustrating this principle, as he had run to hide behind a bookshelf at the first sign of violence. It was little wonder why Penguin had seen him as safe to steal from.

“Are you done?” I asked Edward, walking over to where he was knelt, electrocuting unconscious henchmen. 

“Just a moment,” he said, jamming the end of his cane into the base of a fallen opponent’s spine. He convulsed, body vibrating until Edward ended contact, pulling away. “There. Yes?”

“I could have died, you know,” I said, purposefully petulant. “Would have expected a little more protection, given that I’m your ride back to the lounge.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Billionaire playboy _sportsman,_ isn’t it?” he said, smirking slightly. “I didn’t think you’d have much trouble with a couple librarians.”

“One of them had a bat,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Oh, well,” he said, brushing himself off as he rose to his feet. “You have my utmost sympathy, then. I know how devastatingly irritating Bats can be.”

“I bet you do,” I said. I gestured towards Bookworm’s hiding space. “So, do we tie him up now, or...?”

“That’s usually the next step after defeating the henchmen, yes,” Edward said, looking wickedly pleased. “I’ve never been on this side of the process before.” 

“Is the grass any greener?” I asked, kicking over the bookshelf. Bookworm shrieked, tripping over Edward’s outstretched cane as he tried to run away.

“There are certainly benefits,” he admitted as he hit Bookworm with an electric shock. “I wonder if the GCPD has any bounties out on Kingor?”

“That seems unlikely,” I said, watching the man writhe across the wooden floor. “You know, I still don’t get something.”

Edward made a sound that wasn’t particularly surprised. “I’m sure whatever it is,” he said, leaning menacingly towards Bookworm, “Kingor won’t mind clearing it up for you.”

“I assumed that the signal was some kind of video/audio feed,” I said, “allowing someone here to instruct Zzz on how to play the game.”

“It was,” Edward said, straightening back up. “Why?”

I gestured at the fallen supervillain before us. “The someone that was here was _him.”_

“Hmm,” Edward said. “I see what you mean. Kingor, who was feeding instructions to Zzz?”

Bookworm inhaled stuffily. “I’ll have you know I am a very skillful poker player,” he said. “But as I was too busy delegating to reduce myself to any of the individual cogs in my master plan, I took the care to find a professional.”

“Find?” Edward repeated skeptically.

“Oh, please,” Bookworm said, rolling his eyes. “Now the _Riddler_ is going to condescend to me over kidnapping? I don’t know where this holier than thou attitude came from, Nygma, but it’s quite an amusing look on you.”

“I would phrase it less as a moral objection, and more of my trying to formulate my formal statement to the press,” Edward said. 

I gave him a look.

“Ah, but obviously also as a moral objection,” he added. “Obviously.”

Bookworm laughed, delighted. 

“What?” Edward snapped, raising his cane threateningly.

His prone enemy covered his face with his hands, but grinned beneath the protective gesture. “Playing a part for which you have no qualifications, aren’t you Eddie?” he asked. “The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.”

“Oscar Wilde,” I noted before I could stop myself. 

“Why, yes!” Bookworm said, lowering his arms to look up at me with a pleased expression. “I have to say, Mr. Wayne, I wasn’t expecting you to be...” he trailed off. 

I frowned. “Yes?”

“Erudite,” he finished, smirking.

“I... don’t know if I would go that far,” I said. “But I have always found _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ somewhat inspirational.”

Edward huffed, irritated. _“_ Do _not_ encourage him,” he said, cutting off Bookworm’s reply. “Where’s your ‘professional,’ Kingor? Before we go for another round of shock therapy.”

Bookworm pursed his lips. “There’s a trap door in the next room,” he said. “My guest is down there.”

Edward waited, raising an eyebrow.

 _“With_ a friend,” Bookworm added, annoyed. “I would have thought that common sense, but far be it from me to walk you amateur crimefighters through the process without holding your hands.”

“We appreciate the assistance,” Edward said, then knocked Bookworm in the head with his cane. The criminal crumpled over, unconscious. 

“I would have thought you’d be more careful about inflicting head trauma,” I remarked, trailing after Edward as he followed Bookworm’s directions. “Given your condition.”

“Why should _I_ be careful about inflicting head trauma?” he asked, raising the trapdoor. “It’s not like that courtesy’s been extended to me.”

“I take it you haven’t heard the phrase ‘Do unto others as— nevermind,” I said, seeing his expression.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing towards the newly opened hole in the ground.

I waited, then realized he once again intended for me to go first.

“Ah,” I said. “Beauty before age.”

He flushed. “I am _not_ that much older than you,” he said insistently.

I grinned. “But you agree that I’m beauty?”

“Alright, get out of the way,” he said, pushing me aside. He dropped down the trapdoor, and after waiting a second for him to clear the landing, I followed.

“Your man is holding aces and eights,” a voice said from the other end of the cellar. 

I blinked, letting my unprotected eyes adjust to the change in lighting. In front of me were two men: one chained to the metal frame of a truly ancient looking bed, the other sitting in front of a similarly aged computer. The latter was wearing headphones, but both appeared to be watching a live feed of a poker table at the Iceberg Lounge. 

“Based on the discards and the other players' tells, they’re not holding any better,” the chained man said. “Though I’m not sure about the—”

“Ahem,” Edward said, placing both hands on his cane as he tapped it against the concrete floor. “I hate to interrupt what looks like a very innovative new fetish, but I did just knock all your compatriots unconscious, so I’d recommend taking this as an opportunity to surrender.”

The man in headphones whirled, eyes widening. His arm started to extend as he turned around. I pushed Edward to the ground before the gun fired, the bullet tearing through the plaster of the wall behind where he had been standing. I threw the wooden board in my left hand at the criminal’s head, raising my right in preparation before the projectile hit its target.

 _“Ow!”_ he shrieked, dropping the gun in pain as his hands went up to his eye. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to pick up his weapon, but yelled again when his left leg was yanked out from under him.

“Word of advice,” the man on the bed said, using the hand he’d freed to handcuff his captor’s leg to the bed instead. “Never turn your back on a magician.”

I grabbed the gun before the criminal could reach it, unloading its cartridge and dropping the pieces out of his arm’s length.

“I had that,” Edward grumbled. He stood up, brushing debris off his suit before glancing up at me with annoyance. “Weren’t you just saying something about head trauma?”

“I don’t like guns,” I said. I looked him over; it didn’t appear like the bullet had grazed him before it hit the wall. 

“So I’ve heard,” he said, turning to his unconscious attacker. “Nice shot.”

“Sportsman,” I echoed. “I’d ask if you were okay,” I said, addressing the man on the bed, “but I’m guessing you could have sprung your cuffs at any time.”

He shrugged, contorting himself to escape the constraints on his other arm. “I’d be a sorry excuse for a magician if I couldn’t,” he said. “Still, thought I might as well get the full Gotham experience.”

Edward snorted. “I’d hate to think that Kingor qualifies as the ‘full Gotham experience,’” he said. “Besides, the package deal would probably include a Bat sighting.”

“True,” the magician said, rubbing his wrists thoughtfully. “Can’t say that I mind. Everyone I know from Gotham has a Bat story. I would imagine that a rescue from the Riddler is quite the novelty.”

Edward’s eye twitched slightly. “E. Nygma, consulting detective,” he corrected with a smile. He reached into his jacket to offer a business card, which the man took carefully. “And you?”

“Ivar Loxias,” he said, stretching. His cropped skull patterned t-shirt raised with the motion, revealing even more of his stomach than had already been showing. It was... quite the look, combined with his leather pants, wild hair, and plurality of bracelets, though I supposed neither I or Edward were ones to talk.

“Do I get an introduction to your ‘sportsman’ friend?” he asked, nodding in my direction. “Or is his identity to remain a mystery?”

Edward stared at him, momentarily uncomprehending. Then he grinned. “Oh, this is just Bruce,” he said, clearly delighted. “Say hello, Bruce, don’t be rude.”

I kept my sigh internal. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Loxias,” I said reaching out a hand. He shook it, though the action felt more like an examination of my grip than a display of friendliness. “I heard you were coming to Gotham. A friend recommended your show.”

“The pleasure is mutual,” he said, dropping into an exaggerated curtsy. “Unfortunately, as you mentioned, I have a show to put on. What time is it?”

“7:35,” Edward said, pointedly not looking at any clocks. 

“Perfect,” Loxias said, clapping his hands together. “My show’s at eight. If I call the theatre to delay curtain call, I should be able to make it without giving out any refunds.”

“I’m afraid you might have to cancel,” I said, frowning. “It might take a while for the police to show up and take your statement.”

“Can’t they just drop by my hotel tomorrow?” Loxias asked, wandering over to examine the criminal on the floor. “It’s not as if I’m not going to be pressing kidnapping charges.”

“That’s... not wise,” I said, slowly. 

Edward snorted. “If only all kidnappees were so understanding,” he muttered.

“It’s my decision,” Loxias said, heading towards the cellar ladder. “And I found these clowns more amusing than threatening. Besides, Gotham’s extreme criminals are unique.”

“Where have I heard that one before?” Edward mused. “Let me think... blonde hair, circular glasses, repressed Brooklyn accent...” 

“They represent the perfect fusion of the performer and the sociopath,” Loxias said, and I decided on the spot to start a case file for the man. “An artist such as myself could learn much from them.”

Edward laughed, though he didn’t sound particularly amused. “Riddle me this,” he said. “What do you get when you cross a rabbit with 100 billion neurons?”

Loxias gave a patronizing chuckle as he climbed up to the trap door. “I’ll see you gentlemen around,” he said with a wave.

He disappeared, and the sound of footsteps retreated into the distance above us.

“A harebrained idea,” I said.

Edward grinned, pulling his phone out of his pocket to dial 911. “Quite.”

. . .

“Ha!” Lois exclaimed, grinning as she speedwalked through the Lounge lobby. “He didn’t know who you were?”

“I enjoyed that too,” Edward said. 

I sighed. “I’m a _local_ celebrity,” I protested. “Only very specific non-Gotham demographics would know me on sight.”

“People know Lex Luthor on sight,” Lois pointed out. 

“Lex Luthor is bald,” I said. “And a supervillain.”

“True,” Lois said. “You have great hair.”

“Thank you.”

“And _your_ greatest vice is being an unrepentant manwhore,” she added.

 _“Thank_ you.”

Edward grabbed a champagne flute off a tray being carried by a passing cocktail waitress. “I’m just glad he recognized _me,”_ he said, taking a sip. “I know _this_ city will never forget me, but you worry about what nine months in a coma will do to your reputation on the outside.”

“Don’t worry,” Lois said, waving dismissively. “Your reputation couldn’t possibly get any worse. God, I am _so_ excited to see this go down.”

“It... already went down,” I said, confused. “We’re just telling Penguin _how_ it went down.”

“I know,” Lois said. “And believe me, I’m furious that I wasn’t there to see Gotham’s most eligible bachelor take down the Lindworm.”

“It’s the Bookworm,” Edward said. “And thank you. It was child’s play, really.”

“But I still have the scoop first, and I can _still_ get a picture of Cobblepot’s reaction,” Lois finished, as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “Do you think he’ll have Mr. Snooze tazed?”

“Probably,” I said. “And it’s Mr. Z—”

“I know what their names are,” Lois said, rolling her eyes. “I just think that they’re ridiculous.”

“They are pretty ridiculous,” Edward said when I frowned.

“See?” Lois said, pushing through the crowd that had formed outside of the casino area. “Even E. Nygma agrees with me.”

Edward sniffed. “You know what? Agreement rescinded. I don’t like your tone.”

Lois rolled her eyes as she pushed past the last few onlookers. “Yeah, well—”

She froze. Before her, right on top of a poker table, was my cousin in full Batwoman regalia. She was sitting on top of Zzz, punching him directly in his enormous face while he struggled to throw her off. As we watched, she raised her fists together above her head, then slammed them both down on his nose simultaneously. He went slack, bald head thudding against the green felt of the tabletop. 

“—FUCK!” Lois exclaimed, scrambling through her purse before pulling out her camera. “I go to the lobby for _five minutes_ and the goddamn Batwoman shows up?”

“That’s what they do,” Edward noted, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Whenever your back is turned.”

“What did _he_ do?” I asked, gesturing at Zzz as Kate jumped off the table. “I mean, that you know about.”

“He snapped,” Kate said, pointing with a thumb towards where Cass was standing behind her. “Tried to kill this thirteen year old.”

“Seventeen,” Cass corrected. She was doing a pretty good visual job of pretending to be traumatized; wide eyes, shuddering breaths, strong victim posture. “Probably.”

“And you, Eddie?” Penguin asked, shoving bystanders out of the way as he approached. “Did you uncover who was behind all this hideousness?”

“I did,” Edward said, twirling his cane triumphantly. “Riddle me this—”

“What’s your feud with Bookworm, Mr. Cobblepot?” Lois asked, pen and notepad in hand. Edward glared at her.

“No comment,” Penguin told her, looking gleeful. “The proper authorities have custody of that poor, sick soul, I hope?”

“Sure,” Edward said, looking rather put out. “Assuming you can stretch the definition of ‘proper authorities’ to include the GCPD.”

“Isn’t ‘proper Gotham authorities’ a bit of an oxymoron?” Lois asked without looking up, jotting down notes furiously.

“You sure you want to throw stones, Ms. ‘Lex Luthor owns my entire city?’” I asked.

“At least Lexcorp cleans the windows in its glass houses,” Lois muttered. “This city is filthy.”

“Lady, gentleman, please,” Penguin said, throwing his arms around us. Normally such a gesture would have fallen over our shoulders, but given Penguin’s height, his hands settled somewhere around our waists. “Why all the negativity? Now that this criminal has assaulted a customer— not to mention be proven to be employed by a certifiable madman— we can put all of this behind us.” He grinned, patting us comfortingly before pulling away. “And _I_ can confiscate his winnings!”

“He doesn’t have any winnings,” Kate said, halting Penguin in his tracks as he made his way to the pile of chips that still sat on the edge of the table. 

“WHAT are you _talking about?”_ Penguin seethed, obviously furious at the interruption. “He stole over 100 thousand from me!”

“He did,” Kate said. “Stole. Past tense. What he didn’t do was manage to hold on to it.”

“What _is_ she talking about?” Edward asked, curiosity overriding his earlier annoyance. “Ozzie?”

“I have no idea,” Penguin said, horror beginning to seep back into his features. “I was in my office doing anger exercises.”

“...Maybe you should go back in there,” I suggested, piecing together what had happened. “And then we can resume this conversation once you’re feeling better.”

“Why do you think he attacked the teenager?” Kate asked. “She completely cleared him out.”

Everyone turned to stare at Cassandra. She gave the room a small wave. 

“Oh God,” Penguin said, running his hands through his thinning hair. “Oh, _God._ The Wayne brat?! She doesn’t even _need_ it, the greedy, conniving little—”

“No, no,” Cass said waving her arms in an ‘X’ gesture before pointing back at the pile of chips. “All yours.”

“—beautiful, charming, _generous_ soul,” Penguin continued, catching her hands in his. He kissed them with gentlemanly enthusiasm, once on each pair of gloved knuckles. “You are welcome in this establishment anytime, you hear me?”

“Don’t need it,” Cass echoed, looking embarrassed at the attention.

“Anytime,” Penguin insisted. “I don’t care if we’re open. If you come, we’ll seat you. You can bring the whole clan if you like,” he said. Then he looked over at me. “Only she eats for free, though,” he added. “You’re all still richer than God.”

“I’ll pass that along,” I said dryly. 

Penguin released Cassandra, scrambling to grab the chips before someone else could take them from him. Cass glanced uncomfortably in my direction. In the blink of an eye, she was standing at my side. 

“Lost money,” she said unhappily, handing me back my wallet. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine, Cass,” I said, putting a supportive hand on her shoulder. “What you did was very kind. That’s more important than money.”

There was a gagging sound coming from behind us. I turned to see Edward making disgusted faces into his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, lowering his hand to straighten his tie. “Something in my throat.”

“Right,” I said. “Sure.”

“Well!” Penguin said, returning to our side of the casino. He was trailed by several cocktail waitresses carrying armfuls of poker chips. “I think tonight went pretty well, Eddie. Don’t you?”

“I certainly enjoyed myself,” Edward said, leaning smugly against his cane. 

“You all have to stay for the afterparty, of course,” Penguin said. “You especially, Ms. Cain-Wayne,” he added, pointing at Cassandra, “but your father too. Assuming he’s your ride.”

Cass turned to me, eyes pleading. 

“I mean, you had a long plane ride yesterday,” I said warily. “I’m sure Mr. Cobblepot would understand if you were too tired to—”

She bit her lip. “Please?” 

I sighed. God damn it.

“Yes, obviously you can stay,” I relented. Cassandra fist pumped, victorious.

“I’ll stay too,” Lois said.

“I was _not_ inviting you,” Penguin said, glaring at her.

“I know,” Lois said. “But I was going to stay anyway, so I thought we’d just get the conversation out of the way now.”

Penguin groaned. “Fine,” he said. “But your profile on me better be flattering.”

“I’m... not writing a profile on you,” Lois said.

Penguin raised an eyebrow significantly.

“Ugh,” Lois said. “I will _consider_ writing a profile on you.”

“I’ll take that,” Penguin said, turning around. “Batwoman, that invitation _did_ extend to you, if you’re interested in...”

Kate had snuck off several minutes ago. 

“How do they DO that?” Penguin asked, frustrated.

“Every time,” Edward said, not sounding particularly surprised. “Whenever your back is turned.”

“Oh, well,” Penguin said, recovering his composure quickly. “I suppose not every Gotham entrepreneur can say that Batman’s sister showed up to their Grand Re-Re-Reopening. However briefly.”

“Batman’s _what?”_ Edward and I asked simultaneously.

“Sister,” Penguin repeated. Then he frowned. “Oh, good grief. Don’t tell me that you two ascribe to that ridiculous theory that they’re _married?”_

“Ah, no,” Edward said, glancing over at me with obvious amusement. “I just... hadn’t heard that one before.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Penguin said cautiously. “No offense, Ed, but sometimes your theories regarding Batman’s identity are... implausible at best.”

Edward laughed. “I’d have to beg to differ obviously,” he said, then paused, still smiling. “Well. For the theories I remember, anyway.”

Penguin waved him off with a well-natured scoff, then left to circulate amongst the patrons. I turned to Edward, doing my best not to look like a man whose blood pressure had just rocketed into the stratosphere.

“I assume you already had an invitation to the after party?” I asked.

“Of course,” he agreed. His expression was something disturbingly close to mischievousness. “Though, I assume you’ll be too busy keeping an eye on your probably seventeen year old to resume our conversation from earlier...?”

I adopted my best ‘gullible playboy with no ulterior motives’ smile. “Let me buy you a drink,” I offered.

. . .

“Did you know that Ozzie waters these down?” Edward asked, swirling a finger around the rim of his empty martini glass. “Absolutely incorrigible.” 

“I did not,” I said, smiling easily. “Though that’s as good a reason as any to have another. Doris?”

The blonde waitress had taken over for the original bartender when he’d abandoned his post for the dance floor. It had turned out that Penguin’s after party was more or less ‘employees only,’ so the staff had set their aprons aside to celebrate the end of a successful night. The only reason Doris was still working the counter was because I was tipping her enough to buy the restaurant out from under her boss. 

“Way ahead of you,” Doris said, setting another vodka martini in front of Edward and clearing away the superfluous glass. She gave me a wink as Edward picked up his umpteenth glass of the evening, which had potentially disturbing implications for what she thought my intentions were. 

Oswald called her to the other end of the bar, where he and Lois were still talking. I wasn’t sure if he was also tipping Doris a fortune, or if she just liked him enough to continue serving him on what was ostensibly supposed to be an evening off. His interview with Lois seemed to be going well, based on the general air of congeniality that surrounded the pair. There was a look in her eyes that implied she was far more excited to have exclusive access to the Oswald Cobblepot story than she had originally let on, and at some point she had transitioned from jotting down the occasional quote to setting up a tape recorder to document their entire conversation.

Beyond the bar, Cassandra was swooping around the dance floor, leaping back and forth in that fascinating blend of ballet and Muay Thai that was her general approach to these things. Watching her bob and weave through a crowd of former henchmen was entertaining on multiple levels, and for a moment I wished that Kate had stayed as well, just so that I wouldn’t be the only person who appreciated the irony.

Well. _Hopefully_ the only person who appreciated the irony.

“You were saying?” I asked. “About your memories.”

Edward glanced over his shoulder, in the same direction I had been looking before I refocused my attention.

“Edward?” I prompted. 

“You’re a good father, aren’t you?” he asked.

I blinked. I wasn’t really sure what to say to that. “Not really,” I said, since that was the first answer that came to mind. 

“She was mocking you, earlier,” he said. “When she was asking you to dance.”

Cassandra had done a somewhat ridiculous impression of my dancing skills when I’d turned her down for a round at the beginning of the evening. Given that the real reason I’d declined her offer had been that Cass could get carried away when dancing with a similarly acrobatic partner, I’d been more pleased than anything when she’d joked that I was embarrassed about having two left feet.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, sure. If that’s the standard for quality parenthood, then I would say I’m a great father.”

He took another sip of his martini. “They’re all like that?”

“You have no idea,” I said, leaning against the bar. “Cassandra is by far the most respectful. It took a long time to make her comfortable enough to poke fun.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” he pressed. “The disrespect?”

“More of them respect me than disrespect me, on average,” I said. “Given that half of them are teenagers, I’m pretty happy with that, actually.”

Edward continued to stare at Cassandra as she laughed across the dance floor. “Hmm.”

I’d read his Arkham file, of course, as well as conducted independent research of my own, so I was well aware of what Edward’s childhood home had been like. Physically abusive father, emotionally absent mother, one or both of whom had been too Catholic to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. A tale as old as time, though their supervillain son had certainly innovated a new spin on their otherwise textbook dysfunction. What that didn’t tell me was what Edward wanted me to say in this situation. He didn't seem especially satisfied with anything I’d said thus far.

“Cassandra’s the easiest,” I said carefully. 

He turned back to me. “How so?”

Yes, how to explain Batman’s relationship with Batgirl? “I trust her,” I said eventually. “Implicitly.”

Edward narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. “You don’t trust the others?”

“I do,” I corrected. “To... varying extents. But I know that Cassandra’s priorities are the same as mine.”

He pulled back. “She’s the most like you,” he translated, not inaccurately. Then he scoffed. “That explains it.”

So that had been the wrong thing to say.

“That’s... part of it,” I admitted. “But it definitely helps that her parents aren’t dead.”

“Huh,” he said, tipping his glass back for another swallow. “And here I thought you preferred orphans.”

“I don’t like replacing dead parents,” I said as nonchalantly as possible. “It’s not what I wanted for myself when I was younger, and I’m not comfortable pushing it on other children now.”

He laughed. “But you like replacing live parents?”

“Well,” I said. “Live terrible parents, anyway. I mean, I could never supplant John and Mary Grayson. But Cassandra _wants_ Barbara and I to supplant her awful bio parents.”

Edward’s brow furrowed, “Barbara... your eldest son’s ex-girlfriend?”

I briefly considered explaining, then shrugged. “The family dynamic is... complicated.”

His eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. “Ah,” he said, then downed the rest of his drink in one go. “I see.”

My eyes narrowed. “What do you... oh,” I said, realizing. _“Oh._ No, no, I cannot emphasize enough, NO.”

He paused. “So the two of you aren’t...”

“Absolutely not,” I insisted. “Why do people always think that?”

“Because you date everything that walks on high heels?” Edward suggested.

“That should be evidence in my favor!” I protested. “Barbara doesn’t even wear high heels.”

Edward laughed. “Or walk.” 

I glared at him.

He bit his lip. “Not funny?”

“What do you think?” I asked, crossing my arms.

Edward resumed tracing the rim of his empty glass, though more glumly this time. “I think there’s a reason I usually stick to riddles.”

“Right, because your riddles are always so tasteful,” I said. Doris was still chatting with Lois and Penguin; I waited for her to glance in my direction so I could signal her to come over.

“What did you mean, ‘give me the wrong impression?’”

I turned back to Edward, who was staring at me intensely.

“I... what?” I asked, lost. 

“Earlier,” he said. “Before Kingor. You said you didn’t want to give me the wrong impression. What’s the wrong impression?”

I frowned. “You’re drunk,” I noted.

“I’m not,” he insisted. “I mean, I am, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Doris!” I called, noticing that the woman had broken off from Penguin. She was at my side almost before I could gesture her over. 

“Another vodka martini, Mr. Wayne?” she asked eagerly. 

“A water, actually,” I said. “And can you tell your boss that his friend has had a little too much to drink? I’d call a ride home for himself, but I’m sure Mr. Cobblepot would prefer entrusting a drunk Nygma to someone on his own payroll.”

“I... of course,” she said, looking confused. 

“Thank you,” I said, flashing her a smile before turning back to the drunk in question. “It’s been a pleasure, Edward.”

He stood up, obviously annoyed. “I don’t need a—”

“Everyone needs water, Edward,” I said, putting a hand on Edward’s shoulder and pushing him back into his chair. I took the glass from Doris and set it down in front of him. “Hydration is vital. Cassandra!”

She paused mid-leap on the dance floor, glancing over her shoulder at me while balancing on one leg. 

“Tim’s waiting up for us,” I said, gesturing towards the exit. “I don’t want to keep him up too late. Let’s say goodbye to our host, shall we?”

She nodded, abandoning her pirouette to walk over to Penguin. I turned to join her, clapping a hand on Edward’s shoulder before moving away.

“See you around, Nygma,” I said, before he could add anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one went a little bit longer than normal, but I figured that was okay because it's been TWO MONTHS??? God, do I have too many WIPs. Anyway, this marks the end of Detective Comics #824! Next time I'm going to try to blend two different issues into a single plotline, so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> Bookworm, Ms. Limpet, his glasses wearing goons and the knockout book are all from the 1960's tv show, I just thought it would be fun to throw them in here. The Oscar Wilde quote is specifically from "Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories," which I think Bruce has probably read a lot (despite his claim that his favorite is Dorian Gray). I imagine he probably severely misinterpreted the moral of "The Model Millionaire," though.


End file.
